Heart of Electrum
by JennMel
Summary: One son with a heart of gold, one son with a heart of silver, and then a third son...the adopted son with a heart to forge the link between two brothers, the bond which would one day become the heart of Persian rule.
1. Water

Author Notes: So here is my first multi-chaptered Prince of Persia fic! I actually began writing this very soon after finishing my other fic, Remains, but only got halfway through this chapter before inspiration left me. But as soon as I got the dvd, I had to come back to this! The relationship between the three brothers is probably my favourite dynamic of the movie, so this fic is me creating what I hope to be a plausible background of growth, friendship and brotherhood. Because there is no way that it would have been easy to start with! Please enjoy!

**Heart of Electrum**

Chapter 1: Water

King Sharaman was not truly paying attention as they rode through the streets of Nasaf, the current seat of the Persian Court. Normally, he did not begrudge his kingly duty to show himself to the people every so often. In truth, he normally enjoyed it. But he was so anxious to get back to the palace – and yet, equally dreading it – that the splashes of colour, the rich bustle and wafts of spices from Nasaf's markets just completely passed him by.

The source of his preoccupation was, as ever, his two children; the Crown Prince Tus, and his younger brother Garsiv. Of course, he had other sons, other daughters, but they were children of the court, or else, children of the nursery. None of them were children from his first royal wife Taja, who had died giving him Garsiv eleven years ago. The Persian beauty; she who he would have gone so far as to say he had loved, indeed, still loved. Tus and Garsiv were not only the true heirs to his throne, but were the only ones in the public eye, the only ones who carried with them the expectations of the Empire.

The events of earlier that morning were part of an already unsettling pattern. So much, Sharaman dearly wished that Tus and Garsiv would be as close as he had been with Nizam when they were children, indeed, as they still were, but this was not the case. They were too different, neither able to understand the other; Tus too logical, so calm in everything that he faced that it only served to spark the fiery Garsiv off quicker to a flame. The age difference of nearly five years did not help, and it took considerably less each time to touch Garsiv's jealousy, or Tus' tendency to patronise with distain.

The resulting whirlwind that followed was becoming the bane of the servants' lives, and indeed his own. This morning, Sharaman suspected it was Tus who had been at fault, as the altercation had occurred in the stables, and spooked the horses. No doubt his eldest son had been trying to express his 'superior' knowledge of a topic particularly close to Garsiv's heart...

Sharaman restrained the urge he had to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. What was a king to do? His sons, whom he loved more than life itself, got on as well as oil and water, and he did not see how this was likely to change anytime soon. Nizam had suggested splitting the boys up, sending them to different courts in the Empire, but Sharaman was loath to follow his advice. If he did so, he would have to keep Tus with him to continue the boy's training, which would only add to what he suspected was the source of Garsiv's problems – that he was no more of a son to Sharaman than any of the other children at court.

A sharp cry of anger jolted Sharaman out of his thoughts, as a small boy ran in the path of the horse one in front of his own. He watched in detachment as one of the guards made for retribution, but then in an instant another child materialised, throwing something, and suddenly both boys were running, pursued by the majority of his royal guard. Nizam brought his horse to stand next to his brother's, "At this rate, we will not be back at the palace until midday!"

Sharaman smiled softly, knowing his brother's distain for these small excursions out to the people. He nodded his head at Sirdar, the head of the royal guard, who was watching in disgust as his men were bested by a monkey of a child as it darted across the rooftops to escape. "What is the delay?"

"A boy attacked a member of your guard, sire, my men are apprehending him now."

Sharaman raised an eyebrow, "And what, pray tell, did he attack your soldier with?"

Sirdar looked around for a moment, before picking up a small object from the dust, placing it in his king's outstretched palm, before taking a step back as his soldiers returned, clearly all the more angered by the bruises they had sustained in the chase. The boy struggled and writhed as he was forced down, and Sirdar's second in command drew his sword to cut off the boy's hand in penance.

All the while, unnoticed by the preoccupied guard or the bored Nizam, Sharaman was turning an apple over in his hand, deep in thought. What kind of child, clearly starved as he was, used his only food as a projectile to save another boy? Another boy who had clearly escaped... He looked up to the child as he fought viciously with a pair of his men, reminding him much of Garsiv when his nursemaids tried to force the boy into a bath.

Thoughts racing, he kicked his horse forwards, watching with an impassive gaze as everyone dropped to their knees. The boy looked confused for a second, as his hand remained intact. Yet, still he did not run, and neither did he kneel. He stood there, calm as you please, looking up to his King. For the second time in such a short moment, Sharaman was struck by a wisp of familiarity. Not just in the way the boy held himself, which was so much like Tus in its stoicism, but also in the child's eyes. They were not the obsidian of Nizam, Garsiv and the other men of the Persian line. They were not even the deep royal sapphire of Tus and Sharaman's father, from whom his first son had gained his namesake.

They were a mirror of crystal water, clear in both colour and gaze. Such a gaze that he had only seen once before on his life – no fear, no regret, just a knowledge that all had been for the best. Later, Sharaman would realise that he had already made his decision, before he had even asked for the child's name, or his parentage. His hand had moved on its own accord as he threw the child back his apple, and indicated that Nizam should take him up onto his horse.

Taja had always teased him that perhaps she was a gift from the gods, such was the frequency of the compliments he always received on her beauty and her ethereal eyes, unique in colour to Persia as they danced with the waters of the world. It had been a bittersweet goodbye when she had turned these words on him again at her death, saying that she had served the gods by giving him his sons and had to leave him.

He had cursed the gods that day, convinced that he would never meet anyone as unique as her again. So while he knew his brother's disapproving gaze to be fixed upon his back, he felt no regret. He knew this boy was something special, to have fallen across their path such as he had; a heart of a prince beating with the blood of a street waif. A child with the eyes of Taja; with the eyes of water and the god who commanded it.

A third son with no eye to his throne, but a true prince of Persia nonetheless.

* * *

For the first time in many moons, Garsiv knew that he and his elder brother were in complete agreement. Of course, Tus was too much the perfect son to actually voice his horror; Garsiv did not see the need for such restraint, "No." At times like this, the succinct approach was always best.

"Your father has made his intent perfectly clear, Garsiv, believe me when I assure you that this is happening. Your new brother is with the King now."

"Spare me, Uncle, _Parvaiz_ is more of a brother to me that this creature Father seems to have taken a liking to." Parvaiz was a child of the nursery, a son of a vassal prince brought to grow up in the Persian Court to ensure the loyalty of his father's city. He and Garsiv often butted heads, being of similar ages and equally short tempers.

"Nevertheless, your father's will is clear. The child is to be given chambers in your wing of the palace, and he is to be the responsibility of both of you."

"But the servants-"

"Will have no part in his place here at the palace, the king has ordered it. The boy is yours to look after, teach, and make a prince out of. You father wanted me to emphasize this fact – he is your new brother, in everything but blood."

"Uncle, I do not have time for this. My lessons-" Tus began.

Nizam smirked, "I suggest you make time, young prince. Your father is adamant on the matter. Your actions this morning have angered him to the point of taking this step, and he will not receive you until you have been able to show to him that you are the princes your blood proclaims you to be. This child is to be your way of doing so. I advise you become acclimatised to the prospect as quickly as you are able."

"But-" Garsiv tried to protest further, but the door leading into the room opened, and Dabir, the boys' tutor, entered, with a small child in tow.

Nizam nodded to the tutor, before turning back to the princes, "Tus, Garsiv, this is your new brother, Dastan."

"That's _Prince _Garsiv."

Dabir smirked at the younger, now middle prince, "Not to Dastan it isn't, young prince. Unless you wish to be so formal as to call your own brother Prince Dastan every time you call his name. I would imagine it would make things rather longwinded, don't you agree, my Lord?"

Nizam smirked in agreement. He might disapprove of his brother's methods and wisdom of bringing this child into the palace, but even he knew that the pair of siblings needed something to give them a shock big enough to sort them out. "Quite. One more thing – until further notice, Tus you will be returning to take your meals in this wing once more. Your father does not feel your place is in the centre of court at the moment, not while you have Dastan to teach."

Tus gaped for a second, before managing to smother his dismay and hurt under a blank mask. Garsiv was not so able to hide a snicker at his brother losing one of his favourite topics of pride.

All the while, Dastan watched the interchange with a coiling sense in the pit of his stomach. So much had happened in such a short space of time. In the flicker of a single morning, he had exchanged his rags for silks; garments that constricted around his body, stiff with newness and unbecoming of an orphan. He was surrounded by grandeur that he could not have hoped to even imagine, even in his dreams, and no sooner than he had finished talking with the _King _of all men, he was now being faced with his new 'brothers', brothers who were poor at hiding their coldness.

He returned the dark-haired prince's disdainful glower with an impassive resolve that in no way matched how he felt on the inside.

He would not be afraid.

And then the King's brother and the man Dabir took their leave, so that only the three boys remained. They were to be stuck here, together. Garsiv covered his poorly hidden anger with a nasty smirk, "Well, at least it has been given a bath, even if the clothes sit poorly on its skeleton." He turned to Tus, "I'll be eating in my rooms tonight. Enjoy your and Father's new pet project."

Tus watched as his brother stormed away, recognising the same childish desire to sulk swell in his throaty before he rapidly quashed it. He was the responsible one, the eldest, something he had failed to measure to in his father's eyes. So he would at least try. Mustering a formal smile, he dipped his head slightly, "You may address me as just Tus, despite what Garsiv may demand. May I call you Dastan?"

"It is my name...sire."

Tus quirked an eyebrow at the reply; short, formal, and strong of voice. Perhaps the child had more spirit that his small stature might have originally implied. Well, there had to be some reason why Father had adopted the boy, rather than just integrated one of the other children of the court into the royal brothers' lives. "I just told you that my name is Tus. If your memory is that poor, I shudder to think how disastrous your lessons will be. I pity your tutors."

In much the same way as it worked with his younger brother – or perhaps now, he should think, _other_ younger brother – his calmly stated jibes against pride caused the boy to bristle. But unlike Garsiv, he replied in a voice pitched much the same as Tus' own. Clear and precise, "I'll be taught? Taught what?" And apparently, with a good aptitude at changing the subject.

"Everything befitting a Prince of Persia, no doubt. How old are you? Seven?"

There, the boy did snap back sharply, "Ten!" There was a pause, before he continued in a more embarrassed tone, "I think..."

"We'll say ten for now. Come, I will take you to my chambers where we can eat, and by then the servants should have prepared your rooms. Garsiv, as I think you may have realised, will not be joining us."

The rest of the evening was filled with Tus' voice, explaining in the same, dry tone, all he thought Dastan needed to know. Or rather, Dastan knew bitterly, what Tus thought the King wanted him to tell the new Prince. Despite the impressive spread of food in front of him, Dastan had never felt so lacking in the need to eat. Could this boy make him seem like any more of an inconvenience? A burden? A dirty smudge on the bright walls of a world Dastan had no right or desire to exist in?

At least, Dastan supposed that there was one benefit of the uncomfortable atmosphere Tus was oppressing him with. His dulled appetite prevented him from tearing into the food like a wild, crazed creature. He needed a defence in this place if he was to survive, and to do that, he needed to be seen to be as strong as possible. Of course, he was no fool, and Tus was equally too absorbed in his long speeches to notice Dastan putting his light fingers to use on the food.

It was not until the candles and fires had been doused, and Dastan sat alone, curled amongst a mass of plush, exotic cushions, a tiny form drowning on a giant bed, that he allowed the fear to take hold. That suffocating feeling that he could not prevent, faced with a world he could not begin to comprehend. In his heart, he knew he was being ungrateful – selfish even, for those who would never be afforded this chance – but he could not stop himself. He wished to be surrounded by a small huddle of breathing, near-skeleton bodies, knotted together in the corner of some dark rooftop, trying to stave off the growing desert cold. What would Bis be doing now?

Dastan curled further in on himself, hugging his knees tightly, before viciously wiping away the hot tears that had been burning down his face.

No. By whatever divinity, he had been given a second chance. King Sharaman, hailed as the greatest ruler in the world, had chosen _him_. Here he was, presented with an opportunity to not end up run through with a blade in an alley.

He just needed to stay alive, stay sharp. And stay on the right side of two very powerful princes, who by all accounts, wished Dastan had never been born.

Right. Okay. Easy.

To be Continued...

Author Notes: So what did you think? I would love to hear your feedback!

For clarification, 'children of the court' are children of Sharaman, but to minor royal wives (hey, the guy must have had more than one!) and thus not eligible for the throne. They would likely rise to position in administration or army, but unlike Tus and Garsiv, would probably stay with their mothers in different cities, as opposed to moving with the King every time. 'Children of the nursery' is a term I have borrowed from the Ancient Egyptian Court, wherein vassal states would sent their younger sons to grow up in the ruling court. This would thus ensure the child's loyalty to the ruling empire when they returned home as an adult. It's such a simple, logical process that, while I'm not positive, I believe the Persians would have probably used it as well. Much of my inference in the whole court set up will come from what I know of the Egyptian court, because it would have been similar, and we have far more evidence for what they got up to than the inner working of the Persian courts. But like I said, what I've done if still inference, and this is still just a work of fiction, so don't read in too closely!


	2. Earth

Author Notes: I'm so flattered by your review response - thank you to all who took the time; I didn't realise my 'plot' would be interesting to you all! So, here is the second chapter; it's a little bit shorter, but I didn't want to eke out what I wanted to happen in it. Later chapters will compensate, I assure you! Enjoy, and thanks again guys!

Chapter 2: Earth

The Boy, for Garsiv would refer to him in no other way, had disappeared again. Their new resident seemed to have a penchant for finding the smallest, darkest spaces, and contorting himself into them. And now Garsiv had to look for him. It was not as if the child had very far to go; since Sharaman's rather spontaneous adoption, the three brothers had been confined to their wing of the palace for all of two days now. Thankfully, he only had to keep a handle on the Boy for one more day, before their temporary ban on training would be lifted, and he could return to his swords and horses.

On the bright side, at least the Boy was quiet, which was far more tolerable than the other downside of this new arrangement; having to be in close quarters with Tus for such an extended period. He found himself almost wishing that his older brother would return to his lessons on royal practice with their father, even if such lessons always caused a secret spark of jealousy within him.

"Garsiv." It was Tus, looking all smug and superior as usual. Well...superior. The usual smugness from his expression seemed to be rather lacking somewhat, causing Garsiv pause. "Evening meal has been brought up – Dastan is in the second chamber already." The second chamber was accessible by all three boys, and where meals were brought by the servants – the only aid the brothers were to get in their new task of care giving.

Garsiv scowled, "You could have saved me the trouble by telling me that you found the little mouse." It was another one of Garsiv's little jibes, after he had proclaimed early on that his new 'brother' was too pathetic to even be equated to a rat.

For once, in an almost surprising turn, Tus did not rise to retort with his usual banter, instead replying, "Just come and eat."

Garsiv snorted, "You may enjoy pretending to be Father by practicing on your pet mouse, but you have no such power over me, _brother_."

Tus remained impassive as he led the way back into the chamber, "As ever, _little _brother, your words echo well of your quick wit." And there it was, that dry quiet sarcasm of his brother's that Garsiv so hated. That knack he had to make it sound as if he was not insulting Garsiv at all.

In a change from the past few meals, they ate in complete silence. Even Garsiv found it rather unsettling. While the Boy never normally made a sound anyway, and Garsiv enjoyed creating an awkward atmosphere by not contributing to conversation unless it was with barbs, Tus usually carried some sort on inane conversation. It was for this reason that Garsiv rose to leave even earlier than normal, intent on returning to his chambers to escape. As usual, the Boy took this as a permissible cue, and rose only a second afterwards.

It was then that Tus spoke, causing Garsiv to pause and turn curiously, "Please pull up your sleeves, Dastan."

Now, Garsiv would be the first to say that he hated the waif, and held him in high contempt, but even he was surprised to see a flicker of fear behind the child's eyes. It was not an emotion he really associated with the Boy. And then it was gone, replaced by something Garsiv could not quite identify, "Why?"

Garsiv scowled, finding himself lending his voice to his brother's support, much to his distaste, "Because your prince gave you an order, you ungrateful mouse."

Tus threw him a look, before returning his gaze to the tensely coiled boy before him, amending Garsiv's words with his own, "Because your brother asked if you would, little one."

Garsiv blinked at his older brother's tone. It was gentle and kind, a tone he remembered from long ago, when they had still been very young – before Tus had grown stuffy, and before they had grown apart. He hadn't thought his brother was still capable of such a considerate emotion. Or even an emotion at all, for that matter.

And then, tentatively, Garsiv watched as the child began to empty out food onto the table before them. Garsiv could not keep the amazed shock from his face. How had the Boy taken that much without him catching him once? How had he even fitted that much food on his person? And perhaps most pressing – _why?_ It was not as if they were rationing the child. Was he planning on running away? Of abusing Father's kindness, perhaps having stolen even more from the citadel?

Garsiv found his anger building with his conclusions, and almost unconsciously took a step towards the Boy, fisted balled. But then Tus cut across him, also rising to his feet, before returning to kneel in front of the child, taking his shoulders, "Do not feel as if you need to hide food, Dastan. You will not go wanting. Even if I were not certain that Father would provide, you will always have your brothers." He handed all the 'stolen' food back to Dastan, "You were obviously hungry, so next time, you will promise me that you will eat what you want. Food spoils easily, and it is best not left hidden away in your rooms, yes?"

There was a nod, "I didn't mean-"

"Of course you didn't. Good night, little brother." And there, Garsiv felt an unfamiliar stab of jealousy, though for what, he could not quite place.

"Good night Tus." The Boy paused, before offering a slight nod to the other prince, "Garsiv." It was the first time he had not called the middle brother 'sire'. Garsiv was in too much shock to put the Boy right, and by the time he had recovered, the small form had already stolen down the hall.

"What was that?" Garsiv spat.

"That was me explaining to our brother that he should not feel that food will be taken from him at any moment. He needs to learn that every meal is not his last."

"But-"

"Dastan is not going away, Garsiv. Father will see to that; you know as well as I that he is a man of his word. You might try to accept the idea."

"Why should I?"

"Because you are a Prince of Persia. As am I, and now, as is Dastan."

"Of course, I forgot, you do so love being _responsible_." Garsiv sneered.

Tus glared at him coldly, "Perhaps I just enjoy the idea of having a brother who is neither an arrogant, ignorant _child_, Garsiv, nor one of the multitude of children in this court who pander to me because I am the Crown Prince!" He composed himself, before nodding sharply, "Good night."

And then Garsiv was left alone in the chamber, jaw set, attempting to suppress an oddly uncomfortable sensation in his throat.

* * *

Their first lessons since the new arrangement were held the next morning. Much to Garsiv's disgust, they were to be with Dabir, which meant academics. Give him a complicated footwork sequence any day. The three princes were sat in the same room, and quickly the elder two brothers had been given skill-appropriate writing exercises to complete. Tus, as _always_, began straight away, and Garsiv knew from long experience that he would be deeply concentrating and thus dead to the world for it. Garsiv, in contrast, had the attention span he had been blessed with since he first began his letters two years ago, and found it far more interesting to watch Dabir and...Dastan.

Twice, he caught himself with a small, wry on his face, in almost sympathy of the boy's plight. Unlike Tus, who was far more advanced, Garsiv could well remember how not long ago he had struggled where Dastan was now – children of the court were taught their literacy from around the age of nine, as was custom.

Stubbornly, he drew a scowl onto his face, and returned to his copying. Who cared? Dastan was from the streets. Dabir was already fighting a battle he could not win.

But then late that afternoon, when he found the little creature flicking through Garsiv's own work, in _Garsiv's_ own chambers, he found that he really did care, "How dare you! What do you think you're doing?"

Dastan jumped backwards as if he had been burnt, and even Garsiv had to be grudgingly impressed by his reflexes. "S-sorry. I was just...I was-"

"Spit it out, imbecile!"

"I just wanted to see what your work looked like."

Garsiv stared, back-footed by the reply, momentarily forgetting that he was meant to hate the child, spluttering, "Why in the name of Persia would you want to do that?"

Dastan just shrugged, "Sorry."

Garsiv snorted, "You know, apologies really doesn't suit you."

Dastan smiled nervously, "Yeah, well wasn't much cause for it...before."

Well, that was even more unexpected. He must have really caught Dastan off guard if he was freely engaging in something beyond yes/no/sorry. And then, Garsiv found himself confronted by that same emotion that he had felt the night before, when Tus had looked at Dastan with kindness. Yes, then he had been jealous, but now...now it was something slightly different. And so he found himself replying in a much calmer voice, "So, why were you looking through my work?"

And then all of a sudden, Dastan blurted out the truth. Days of pent-up emotion brought out by just one unexpectedly open sentence from the least likely of the brothers, "I can't do it. I'm not...I can't...and your Father, the King! He's expecting me to! And I thought if I looked at your work, it might look okay, but I thought _mine_ was hard! And it's not right, because this shouldn't be me! And you hate me, and Tus barely tolerates me, but at least you're honest about it! I can't be what the King thinks I am – I'm a lie! These clothes, my room, and the _food!_ Why _me?_ Please! I don't understand, and I want to go home, but I can't, I won't, because I'm not a coward, and I'm not ungrateful, and I'll try, I will!" Dastan's brain seemed to catch up with itself then, and he froze for a second, eyes wide as they locked with Garsiv's equally shocked face. "Sorry. I shouldn't have...see you at dinner. Garsiv. Sire." And then he bolted, leaving the work scattering in his wake, and a very confused prince.

Because, in all honestly, Garsiv was not an emotional person. It was why, in his opinion, horses were far better than people. He had always seen the world in black and white, and that worked for him, although perhaps his father and tutors would say this probably helped fuel his anger. But now he was faced with the enigma that was Dastan.

And Garsiv was not prone to pity, or even sympathy. In all honestly, Dastan's obvious panic was not what had hit a chord in him. Rather, that many of the things Dastan had voiced were an exact mirror to how he himself felt. Not the clothes or food of course, but measuring up, to being nothing like what his father wanted. Even, although he didn't like to admit it, that his older brother could barely tolerate him.

He remembered Tus' words to Dastan the night before; _little brother_. Words he said so often to Garsiv, but words that had long ago lost that meaning. And, now, like it or not, Garsiv was not the youngest. Despite their close age, he was still the older.

On one hand, he didn't want it. Garsiv felt out of place as it was.

But then, on the other, Dastan was not a prince. Well, he was, but not like Tus, or even the children like Parvaiz. He was something new.

And there it was, whether Garsiv noticed or even wanted it; a tiny seed of doubt, or perhaps, even, tentative optimism, if indeed both outcomes could grow from the same source.

It was barely realised, but grounding nonetheless. Enough, at least, to say to Dastan that evening outside of Tus' earshot, "I don't hate you."

To the sceptic, this was perhaps only a reflex of guilt after experiencing a rather awkward situation.

But to anyone who knew Garsiv intimately – and it was unclear whether at the time any soul could be said to be so close – this was a leap of faith, and a step towards acceptance.

To Be Continued...

Author Notes: So, what did you think? I was worried about keeping their reactions/interactions in character and believable in this chapter, as everything's still at a rather delicate stage relationship wise. Feedback would be loved eternally :)


	3. Wind

Author Notes: Is anyone else noticing how my weekly update system is getting more and more into the midweek? Never mind! It's all you guys and your lovely support! Please enjoy!

Chapter 3: Wind

Sirdar nodded in approval as the newest prince came at him with a practice sword. Ever since he had watched the child best some of his men in the market over a week ago, he had been intrigued. As head of the royal guard, part of his duties often included supervising the princes' military training, and Dastan's light, quick nature had prompted him to help and bring the boy up to speed. At least, as much as he could before the King moved out to the city of Aspanbar to visit the army training barracks. The King's brother, Nizam, along with the princes, would be remaining with the majority of the court in Nasaf; something Sirdar knew Prince Tus had not taken well, however he hid his feelings on the matter.

Sirdar raised his hand to signal Dastan to stop. They were not really sparring, more giving Dastan a moving target on which to practice his footwork. The young prince huffed, and pulled his hair out of his eyes, "That was awful."

Sirdar smiled, "You are too rigid. I know how fluid you can be – you just need to apply this to your sword work. It is less about remembering, and more about feeling. You just need practice, young Prince."

Dastan smiled ruefully. He liked Sirdar. While he found the man's imposing stature rather intimidating at times, he was not royalty, and as such, Dastan felt much less like he was being judged, "I know, I know. It's just..." He trailed off, his eyes unconsciously sliding to where Tus was engaged in an energetic sparring match with another boy from the royal court. He just looked...so unlike Dastan. Even Garsiv, who was much closer to him in age, looked sold and strong as soon as someone put a blade in his hands.

Sirdar ruffled the boy's hair, dispersing clouds of dust, "You will get there – I promise. What you lack in build, you by far make up for in agility. And as long as you continue to eat, you will soon be catching up with your brothers. Well..." He smirked, "Maybe not Prince Garsiv – if he continues to grow the way he does he will be overtaking Prince Tus and rivalling a tentpole."

Dastan grinned, and handed his dulled sword back to Sirdar; he was only allowed to practice with metal blades when he was training with the captain. "Thank you. I should go-"

"Ah yes, your audience with the King. Do not look so worried, young one. I will no doubt see you tomorrow before we leave. You will keep up with your practice, yes?"

"Yes sir."

"Good, now, be off with you."

Dastan ran off as Sirdar shook his head in amusement; there was much to be said for that boy's energy, or his brightness when given half the chance. He knew that much dissent had been caused by Sharaman's decision to bring the boy into his household, but the child had surprised more than one. Not least that there had been no chaotic repeats of the stable incident of late. That was not to say that Tus and Garsiv were even on speaking terms, but Dastan seemed to act well as a buffer, especially now both princes had resigned themselves to the arrangement – even if they didn't like it.

He moved on to help Garsiv; that boy was never as comfortable with a blade on the ground as he was on a horse, and it showed. He knew for a fact that the second prince was just counting the minutes before he was allowed inside to change for his afternoon with the royal Horsemaster.

* * *

Sharaman smiled softly as the small boy next to him fidgeted slightly, his voice strong but stilted as he recounted the events of his first week at the palace. The King had a suspicion that Dastan was leaving out much in concerns to his two sons, but he let this pass. He had been trying to meet with the boy for a few days now, but due to court duties had been unable. With his moving to Aspanbar in the morning for a few months, this would be his last chance for a while, "Sirdar tells me that you are progressing well with the sword."

"Yes sire; he seems to think so."

"You doubt your ability?"

The boy ducked his head slightly, letting his hair fall in his eyes, before that solid resolve Sharaman had seen in the market returned, and he raised his clear eyes to the King, replying honestly, "Garsiv and Tus are so good."

"And I remember being told many a time of how Tus had tripped over his own feet and nearly cut his hand off, or how Garsiv had fallen off a horse and nearly broke his neck. You will get there, Dastan."

Sharaman watched in amusement as the boy's eyes grew wide, "Garsiv fell off a _horse?_"

The King laughed, "We royalty are not gods, Dastan. We are just like you, and you like us. It is what makes the man that makes the right to be King. This is why I brought you from the market that day; I could not bear to see your potential go to waste when I could see just how well you fit into my family, even if neither of us knew it then."

Dastan shifted uncomfortably, "Thank you, sire."

Sharaman smiled, "And I hope that one day, you will see this enough to call me Father." At this, Dastan did not meet his eyes, so the King continued, "Stay true to yourself and your brothers while I am absent, and work hard, as I know you will. I am certain that when I return you will have expelled many of your worries from today. I look forward to my return already."

Dastan smiled tentatively at the King, "As do I."

* * *

"May I come in?"

Dastan turned to see Tus standing at the entrance to his room, a small smile on his face. They had eaten a while ago, and night had truly begun to fall, purples and reds streaking across the sky, illuminating the gossamer drapes that partially obscured the balcony. He frowned, but then returned the older boy's smile, "Of course." Usually after dinner, the three boys retreated to their rooms, not to see the others until the breaking of fast the next morning.

Tus' smile morphed into a grin, and he absently rubbed his shoulder as he walked in and moved to join Dastan on the balcony. So used to rooftops, Dastan often spent all his evening watching Nasaf fall under the emerging dark. "I don't know about you, but I don't think there is a muscle in my body that is not aching right now."

Dastan was taken aback by the easy nature in Tus' voice, so similar for a second to that of Sharaman's. True, the brothers had been known to instigate conversation with him from time to time, but never like this. Without thinking, Dastan blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "How can you be aching? You were hardly trying today!" Belatedly, he realised that he had just insulted the Crown Prince of the realm, and while Tus had not displayed any tendency for violence since he had known him, Dastan fully expected to be punched.

Tus just laughed and hoisted himself up to sit on the balcony, just as relaxed as when he had come in, "I'm glad it looked like that to you! I can assure you that I was barely holding my own in some instances. Trust me, when you get to my level of skill in the sword, you know just how much further you'll have to go."

Dastan sighed in frustration, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." He trailed off as Tus raised an amused eyebrow, and took it as a cue to drop the apology. Then he groaned, "If you've got far to go, then there's no hope for me!"

Tus smiled good-naturedly, "It only seems like that now, brother. I think Garsiv often feels the same. I know I feel inferior whenever I see him on a horse. Sometimes I think he would be happier if he slept on one..."

Dastan grinned, not only at the joke but also at the familial term. Tus had allowed it to slip into his words from quite early on, and while it had made Dastan uncomfortable at first, he now found that it conjured an odd sense of comfort in him. It made Tus seem less stuffy, old and princely somehow. He hopped up onto the balcony to join Tus in one fluid movement, and for the first time in over a week, he found himself falling into an easy relaxed conversation with another boy.

Soon, the palace walls were flickering in torchlight as an easy breeze filtered through the city. Tus was just about to bid Dastan a good night, when a shout went up in the lower courtyard, followed by a single warning bell, signifying an intruder to the citadel. Dastan looked to Tus with wide eyes, and both boys strained their eyes as they leant over to try and see what was going on. The guards had definitely caught someone...

Tus frowned, cocking his head – it was a very small someone. A boy.

And then suddenly Dastan had scrambled to a crouch on the balcony that left him balancing on his toes, and left Tus' heart in his throat as he expected the small boy to be overbalanced by the wind and plunged to his death. Dastan squinted to be sure, and then yelled, "Bis!"

Suddenly, he was gone from Tus' side, springing off his toes in a breath-stealing moment as he caught hold of a lower ledge and began to skitter down the walls as if he was a monkey, not a mouse. For a moment, Tus sat there gaping, having never thought a child capable of such fluid moves; almost as if he were not a person at all, but just another cast shadow on the walls.

And then his brain kicked in, and he jumped down to try and catch up the long, old-fashioned way. What if the guards didn't recognise Dastan, and thought him another intruder? They would run him through, and there was no way Tus would let anyone do that to a brother of his – not even Garsiv, let alone a small waif like Dastan.

Tus' feet pounded hard as they echoed through the halls. He nimbly dodged shocked servants and palace guards as they turned to assume that he was being pursued by some dangerous intruder. He vaulted a few feet into the main courtyard through one of the arches, and was met with a rather violent yell as he saw Dastan sink his teeth into one of the soldier's hands in an attempt to get him to release him. The other child had already been restrained, and swords were already drawn.

"Unhand him this instance!" On reflex, those guards with free hands whipped their swords to brandish them at Tus' approaching form, the blades lighting gold and silver with the half light of the torches and the moon.

It took them only a moment to realise that they were threatening the Crown Prince, and hurriedly made to kneel while the others kept a firm hold on the two boys, "Prince Tus! You should go back inside-"

"You will not tell me what I should or should not do!" Tus pulled himself to his full height, easily employing techniques he had been taught in his path to being the next king, "And you will unhand Dastan as I ordered, unless you wish to explain to your King why you have decapitated his newest son and prince?"

The guards blanched, and took a moment to look at the boys' faces and, more telling, their clothes, before the two men holding Dastan dropped him like a firebrand. Tus strode forwards, helping Dastan to his feet while checking him over. Dastan looked imploringly at him, a strange fear in his eyes that Tus had never seen before, "Bis..."

It took Tus only a moment to realise that this was the name of the other boy, "And him as well."

"But sire, he was caught breaking into the palace-"

Tus glowered coldly, "Yes. I can see how a scrap like him will bring down the Persian Empire."

The guard flinched, but did not back down, "We have our orders from Captain Sirdar and the King himself. All intruders to the citadel must be apprehended and charged. When the King is in residence, the penalty is death. You know this, Prince Tus."

"I do. But while we are the only ones standing here, you will drop your tiny hassansin and hand him over to me. Go and find Sirdar if you must. We will be waiting in Prince Dastan's chambers."

Reluctantly, the soldier nodded, indicating for his men to drop the dazed boy. Dastan grabbed him by his grubby cloak almost immediately and pulled him to them, taking a possessive grip on the smaller boy that Tus did not fail to note. He nodded sharply to the soldiers, before ushering Dastan and the child Bis away.

By an unspoken agreement, they walked in silence until they reached Dastan's rooms. The lack of firelight in the halls by this point told Tus that Garsiv must already be sleeping. Trust him to sleep through a warning bell.

Dastan lead Bis to sit on the bed, the boy's eyes wide as they swept the room. Tus stood before the pair of them, eyes trained on Dastan, demanding an explanation. The young prince shifted, "This is Bis; my best friend."

Realisation hit Tus – of course, the other young boy who had caused the commotion in the market. He remembered Sirdar saying something about it. "What is he doing here?"

Dastan scowled, "He has ears and a mouth – you can ask him yourself."

Tus had to smile at that, having no retort, "Of course, I apologise. Well, Bis?"

The younger boy seemed horrified at the idea of being addressed by the Crown Prince, but answered nonetheless, "I had to know Dastan was okay! We look out for each other! What if...what if..." He trailed off, waving his hands, "He's my best friend!"

Tus realised just how true that must be, for it to be the simple explanation both boys offered. He did not find it hard to believe that out on the streets there were very few people small boys could trust. Dastan shrugged, "Bis came to Nasaf a few years ago. I look out for him, and he looks out for me."

There was that stubborn streak Tus was beginning to recognise. It was also something that now filled him with worry. What was he supposed to do with the boy? He was not his father – he could hardly adopt him into the household, and there was still the law that would demand Bis' execution, regardless of the child's age or intent. While he could probably secure Bis a place in the palace as a servant, what good would that do? True, it would give Bis a secure life, and keep him away from the streets with food on his plate, but it was not a solution. Tus knew from bitter experience that children in the palace could not be friends from different worlds. As they grew, the gap between servant and royal would empty out into a chasm, stretching a friendship, before smothering it entirely.

He sighed, "It is very late. I will explain everything to Sirdar. You should both get some sleep. Nothing bad will happen to you, Bis, I promise."

And in that moment, without even realising it and with so few words, Tus had secured Dastan's trust for good.

* * *

Morning rose clear and cool, the desert heat yet to seep into the stone of Nasaf. Tus came to collect Dastan and Bis early after they had eaten, having been up with Sirdar most of the night, trying to get around their problem. He was to take the boys to the Captain's rooms, where he would explain to them what had been decided.

Dastan stood protectively beside Bis, with Tus behind them both, as Sirdar rose to greet them, "So this is the child who scared my men? What is your name, boy?"

"Bis, sir." He shifted from foot to foot, but did not lower his eyes, "What is to become of me. I was only-"

Sirdar held up a hand, "I do not need an explanation. Prince Tus has already explained everything to me. My name is Captain Sirdar, and I am head of the royal guard. Let me ask you – do you know the penalty for breaking into the palace?"

Bis nodded, "Yes sir."

"And still you came?"

"Of course." Bis replied as if it were the most obviously action in the world.

Sirdar smiled, "Indeed. Well, Bis, I have a proposal for you. I want you to come with me to Aspanbar."

Bis blinked in confusion, while Dastan gaped, "What? You're sending him away? But he hasn't done anything wrong!"

"You know Father's law, Dastan." Tus put in quietly. "Would you rather we sent him back out into the streets, or banished him to die in the desert sands? Perhaps had him executed right now?"

"But I-"

"You are our Father's son. Bis is not."

"I wasn't a week ago!"

At that, Bis laughed, "You didn't throw an apple at a soldier before a week ago, Dastan!"

"We feel that this is the best course of action for all involved." Sirdar put in gently, "If Bis is willing, he will come with me and join the ranks of new recruits. He is an ideal age, if a little small, but this is nothing steady rations won't fix. After six years, he will have completed his training, and will be allowed to take a station – including a member of the personal royal guard. He will not be an urchin, a slave or a servant. He will be a free man, and I promise you both, this is not a permanent farewell."

Dastan bit his lip. In his heart, he knew that this was the best possible thing to happen to his friend. And like Sirdar said, they would see each other in only six years. Perhaps more immediately to the point, they would both live to see the next six years. Bis smiled, "It's okay, Dastan. Maybe this is where our destinies have to split, so that they can meet up again later." Dastan didn't reply, but did offer a smile as Bis turned back to Sirdar "I would be honoured to come with you, sir." It was hardly an opportunity an orphan would pass up; boys his age could only join the army if they came from good background. This was not a mere conscription Sirdar was offering, but a lifestyle, and a station.

Sirdar smiled, "Good. We leave shortly. You will say your goodbyes, and then I will take you to find you some new clothes and duties for the journey. I will be outside."

And then the two boys were alone, Tus having followed Sirdar out. Bis grinned, "Six years then. Try not to fall of a rooftop while I'm gone."

Dastan scowled good-naturedly, "Try not to get trampled by horses while you're away." He sighed, embracing his friend tightly, "Good luck, Bis."

"And you, Dastan."

To Be Continued...

Author Notes: Woo! This was my sneaky solution to my Bis-problem, because while I love him, I believe that something must have happened to keep Bis and Dastan as best friends, while the three princes grew closely as adopted brothers. I realised that if I drew Bis into the palace, Dastan would always be closer to him than Garsiv or Tus.

So, one pair of brothers won over - next chapter, we solve our Garsiv vs. Dastan issue! Until then, any review you wish to leave would be awesome!


	4. Fire

Author Notes: Wow! I really am bowled over by the love for this story! I hope this next chapter lives up to what you've come to expect, and I love you all!

Chapter 4: Fire

Garsiv sighed as he watched Dastan trip over his own feet for what must have been the third time in ten minutes. How was a child as graceful as Dastan so clumsy with a sword? And if it wasn't a sword, then it was horses. Or crossbows. Or spears. He was beginning to think that the stories of Dastan's ability were really just that – stories. He could have, of course, asked Tus for clarification, but that would involve actually having to instigate a conversation with the older boy, and Garsiv really wasn't that curious. Perhaps a more pressing question was how on earth Dastan managed to keep tripping up when he was only fighting a wooden post? If the boy were lazy, then maybe Garsiv wouldn't care, but he wasn't, and he really needed help.

Garsiv hopped down from his perch in the shade of one of the arches that surrounded the training courts of the citadel, just as Dastan threw his practice stick down in frustration to the dust. "And Sirdar always said I was tense." Dastan's head whipped around to see the approaching boy, watching as Garsiv bent down mid-step to retrieve the stick, one of his own already in his other hand. "Here." Garsiv threw the wooden stick back, which Dastan caught deftly.

"Sorry – did you want to use the court?"

"Don't be an apologetic idiot. I already have Tus for a brother to adequately fill that role." He tilted his head slightly, as if sized Dastan up, before jerking his chin to Dastan's sword hand, "See? You're not a total loss if you caught that. You're just too serious."

Dastan cocked an eyebrow, "I'm learning how to kill people. Why shouldn't I be serious?"

Garsiv snorted, "As your older brother, it is my duty to make you understand that not _everything_ is serious. Like I said – we have Tus for that! Learning about the sword is not just about killing. It's about heroics and revenge; great deeds of daring and danger! Protecting your family and your horse with your last dying breath, sword in hand!"

Dastan grinned at Garsiv's obvious enthusiasm, added dryly, "Defending the citadel from this dangerous...tree trunk."

And then Garsiv's grin turned sneaky, an idea coming to mind, borne out of a long-buried memory of standing in much the same place, with a different brother before him in the rising morning heat. Of a time long lost, "No. Defending the citadel from me, Garsiv – the most feared rogue hassansin in all of Persia! Die, Prince Dastan!"

As Garsiv lunged at Dastan with his stick, the younger boy leaping out of range, a grin on his face, neither realised that it was the first time Garsiv had acknowledged Dastan's new station since he had arrived a fortnight ago. They were far too busy laughing, putting on falsely dramatic voices and daring claims as they kicked up dust and clashed the flimsy wooden sticks in a battle of life and death. Dastan's plan of early training was long left forgotten.

Both boys were so absorbed in their game, enjoying the freeness of not needing to act important or worthy, that neither noticed another boy approaching before he called out snidely, "Finally found a boy who matches you in poor skill then, Garsiv?"

Both boys whirled around, and Sirdar would have been pleased to note the instinct that left both of them brandishing their fake swords. Seeing who it was, Garsiv scowled and lowered his stick, face reddening. "Is that the best you can do, Parvaiz?"

Dastan frowned. In his time in the palace, he had come into little contact with the other children of court, but he knew of them. He knew that they annoyed Tus for some reason, because they always treated him like he was already King, and he knew that Garsiv never went off to play with them, which had made their game all the more fun in Dastan's eyes, because he had assumed that Garsiv just didn't play. The boy smirked with a superiority that reminded Dastan of some of the older street boys who had liked to pick on Bis for being so small, "Your inadequacy hardly warrants more effort, especially as this heat grows. Enjoy your time in the dirt with the rat; I'm sure you will find yourself most comfortable."

Dastan could feel Garsiv's hurt and anger radiating, and his frown turned into a scowl at the boy who had ruined their game. He folded his arms, blue eyes hard as he stated proudly and certainly, "Actually, I'm a mouse. Come on Garsiv." And he turned smartly, pulling at Garsiv's arm to get him to come along. Both Garsiv and Parvaiz were so shocked by Dastan's blunt and unexpected retort, that neither exchanged another word in parting.

But Garsiv couldn't help by feel just a little bit happy, and maybe even proud, of the little boy – _brother_ – he had so disdainfully insulted and hated only a little while ago.

* * *

"She will not bite you." Garsiv sighed in frustration, "Honestly, you are as bad as Tus." It had been a week since the rather breakthrough incident that had allowed Garsiv to see Dastan with clear eyes, and since then, the boys had found themselves beginning to enjoy each other's company. Garsiv had found how much he had always wanted, perhaps even needed, someone in his life who was a world removed, while still being so close to him in age. A real brother, not Tus. Dastan just enjoyed the feeling of being part of a family. He had _brothers_. Admittedly, two brothers who barely spoke to each other, but when he was alone with each, he found himself feeling more and more at _home_.

"Well excuse me for being wary of an animal who could happily eat me for dinner!"

"Don't be melodramatic." Garsiv grinned, and sly smile Dastan had come to learn growing on his face as he suddenly let out a shrill whistle through his teeth.

Dastan was not quick enough to react as the horse he was being given took one step forward and head-butted him in the back, sending him to the dirt in a cloud of dust and a muffled _oof_. "Hey!"

Garsiv smiled, grasping Dastan's arm and hoisting him to his feet, "I helped train her. She's one of the best in the stables, and will be gentle with you. You need not look at her as if I am putting you on one of Father's warhorses!"

Dastan scowled for a second, unsure whether to blame the horse or his brother for his embarrassment, before shrugging it off, grinning, "Will you teach me how to make her do that?"

Garsiv laughed, "Let's get you riding first!"

They spent the rest of the morning with Garsiv leading Dastan around one of the training paddocks. While Dastan had been on horses since his arrival in the palace, this was different. This was _his_ horse, and as Garsiv went on to explain, what he learnt from now on would be in no small part down to learning his horse in particular; from gait to temperament.

It was nearing midday when Garsiv noted both Dastan, and therefore his horse, tense. He frowned, following the other boy's gaze to where three more horses and their riders trotted into the large paddock. Garsiv felt a growl swell up in his throat. Since the incident a week ago, the brothers had only encountered Parvaiz at court, when both Nizam and Tus were present, and no one wanted to bring shame to the Empire by acting out of turn. But here, in a rising heat that Garsiv was already finding unbearable, the middle prince was already developing the impulse to charge Parvaiz down. Indeed, he probably would have were he not with Dastan; his brother's new horse was still young, and Garsiv was unsure whether she might spook in close quarters with a stressful situation. Had he been riding her, there would be no problem, but Dastan was too inexperienced a rider to know what to do should something happen.

So instead, Garsiv pointedly made a show of ignoring Parvaiz and the others, turning to Dastan, "We'll walk them out to give them a cool down, and I'll show you how to stable her. It's nearing mid-meal anyway, and Uncle would not appreciate us turning up to eat smelling of horses."

Dastan offered a resolved smile, and let himself kick his horse into following Garsiv's lead.

It didn't work. Parvaiz, having been riding as long as Garsiv, easily intercepted Dastan's horse, "Going so soon? You should not leave on my account, child." Dastan bristled at the snide remark. He might accept being called as such by Tus, but by this boy? He was hardly in any position to act older. Parvaiz smirked, "I am too much of a prince to have made a comment on your smell. Of course, one can never be certain if it is the horse or the rider? I would not have wished to insult such a beautiful charge."

Garsiv somehow kept his anger under control, mindful of the horses as he drew his own level with Dastan's and glared at Parvaiz, "Put away your foul tongue and be on with your business Parvaiz. We were just leaving."

Parvaiz pulled on a look of mocking interest, "I do apologise, Prince Garsiv. I was only expressing my surprise that you would allow such filth on one of your beloved horses. Tell me, is having a pet project such as this creature a new challenge for you? I might think of pulling one out of the gutter for myself."

Oddly enough, it was not Parvaiz's words that really spurred Garsiv to act – although such verbal attacks on his brother had indeed struck something deep within Garsiv he had not known he possessed. Rather, it was the impassive distaste that was clear on Dastan's face, so like Tus in his ability to move past anger and not act upon it.

In a catlike move Dastan would have been proud of, Garsiv used his reins to swing his legs in one smooth move, looping one ankle in the tack to secure himself, as he delivered a single violent kick into Parvaiz's face, successfully sending him crashing into the dust at his horse's feet in shock. The boy coughed harshly, spluttering on the blood that now flowed freely from his nose, looking up at Garsiv, who was already sat securely back on his own horse, back straight as he glared down at Parvaiz with disgust.

Unfortunately for all concerned – the royal princes, Parvaiz, and the other two boys in the paddock – while Parvaiz may have been riding for as long as Garsiv, he was by no means as in tune to the horses. The enraged boy scrambled to his feet and lunged for the closest thing – namely the reins of Dastan's horse. As Garsiv feared, faced with such anger and blood, with such an inexperienced rider, Dastan's horse immediately rebelled, her panic only serving to infect Parvaiz's riderless horse into rearing.

With the heat and the sudden panic, it was all Garsiv could do to keep his own horse firmly in check as it very nearly caved Parvaiz's skull in. And then Dastan yelled. So much dust was being kicked up that Garsiv could barely see anything, and as any experienced Horsemaster knew, even five spooked horses, especially in a confined space, were enough to kill, "Dastan!"

Garsiv caught sight of his brother just in time to see him roll out of the way of a pair of slamming hooves. Harshly kicking his horse under control, Garsiv rode quickly to him, bending down with an arm outstretched to hoist Dastan onto his horse behind him, out of the way of the crush and the dust. As soon as he felt his brother's arms securely around his waist, Garsiv made to grab the reins of the nearest horse in an attempt to gain control. In the cacophony of horse, human and heat, more men had swarmed the paddock to help try and restore order, and as suddenly as it had begun, so it ended.

Dazed, despite escaping relatively unscathed, Garsiv watched the dust settle, only really aware of Dastan's harsh breathing at his back and in his ear. He breathed in relief when he saw no still bodies on the ground. And then his reins were snatched from his hands as a tall man took control of his horse. It was Rostam, the royal Horsemaster, and he looked angrier than Garsiv had ever seen him, "Get down from there, fool of a boy!" His harsh features softened slightly as they took in Dastan, which only made Garsiv worry that his brother really was in a state. Rostam signalled for one of his men to take Garsiv's horse under control, before he reached up to offer Dastan a hand. Garsiv had to hide his smirk when Dastan refused the help, hopping lightly to the floor, albeit with a small sway when he landed. Garsiv followed suit, without the sway, and stood steadfastly next to Dastan, staring down Rostam. The Horsemaster glared, "You will come with me. Now. _All_ of you!" He indicated to the other three boys who, while bruised, and bloody in Parvaiz's case, were still relatively unscathed.

There was no doubt where Master Rostam was taking them. Or rather, to whom.

* * *

Nizam had listened to the story with a bizarre mix of amusement, worry, and exasperation, although none of these emotions reached his impassive face. Swiftly dealing with the three vassal children and dismissing them with stern words and punishment, he found himself alone with his brother's 'real' sons – if the child Dastan could be ever called as such. Both stood before him, covered in sweat, grime and, in Dastan's case, a growing bruise on his left arm. By all accounts, they had been incredibly lucky today. He pinched the bridge of his nose, addressing Garsiv as his nephew, not a prince, "Garsiv, this violent behaviour must cease. Tus? Parvaiz? Your father is close to sending you away from court, and I am leaning to agree with him. You must start to act your age!"

"Uncle, I-"

"I have no use for your excuses. It is bad enough that you drew Dastan into this. I will speak to your father on his return next month. If you wish me to speak well of you, I would advise you amend this behaviour – _immediately_. You are to be confined to your wing of the palace, and will only undertake your lesson with Dabir for the next week. Dastan, I believe your bruises are enough of a reminder to you to avoid situations like this in the future. I know I do not need to tell you how delicate your position in this household is. In future, you will be receiving all of your horse training with Rostam. Now, be off with you both." He ended his lecture with a smile to soften his words, clasping each boy on the shoulder, before nodding them in the direction of the doorway.

He sighed in amusement as the door swung closed. Sharaman never could do things simply, even in his children...

* * *

After evening meal, Garsiv found himself being cornered by a surprisingly angry Tus. Not that Garsiv was unsure as to why his brother was angry – he just hadn't thought him capable of such an 'irrational' emotion, as Tus was wont to call Garsiv's sporadic outbursts.

The older brother grabbed Garsiv's arms tightly, hissing, "Why cannot you just let go of your idiotic pride? Who cares what Parvaiz said? I know you might be too selfish to worry, but you almost got my – _our _ – brother killed today! All over some foolish words!" Tus pushed back on his grip on Garsiv, releasing him as he drew himself up to full height, anger gone as Garsiv stumbled slightly, "Grow up and act the prince you are."

Garsiv scowled, but equally found his anger spent by the day. As Tus walked away, Garsiv called to his retreating back, "For your information, I did not attack Parvaiz for my pride, but in defence of _our_ Father's actions, and of _our _brother." Tus paused and turned his head slightly, but kept still with his back turned as Garsiv continued, "And I would gladly do it again. It's what _brothers_ do, is it not? I look out for Dastan, and he looks out for me. Dastan is more of a prince than Parvaiz or any of the other pathetic _children_ in this palace can ever hope to be, and Father saw that." The undercurrent of his words was not lost on the older prince, but Tus did not continue to pause to confront Garsiv's words. He only resumed walking, a confused mix of guilt and worry coiling within him.

Garsiv glared at his brother's retreating shadow, and kicked the wall for good measure before stomping back to his chambers. To his surprise, they were not empty when he got there. Dastan was waiting for him. Surprising himself, Garsiv found his foul mood melting, to be replaced by a tentative grin, "You okay?"

Dastan shrugged the concern away with a much stronger grin of his own, "I've had way worse. I wanted to say thank you for today. If you hadn't pulled me up-"

Garsiv shrugged flopping down on his bed next to Dastan, letting his eyes fall shut in exhaustion, "Whatever. You're my little brother. What was I supposed to do?"

Dastan blinked, a shy smile growing on his face, unseen by Garsiv, before he glossed over it with a cocky grin, "So. Will you add that move of yours to the list of all things horse that you need to teach me?"

"What move?" Garsiv cracked open one eye.

"The one where you broke Parvaiz's nose!"

Garsiv sighed nonchalantly, "Ah. That one. Secret of the trade."

Dastan threw a cushion at his brother's face.

To Be Continued...

Author Notes: That right folks, there will not be only four chapters to this story like the chapter titles might infer - there will, in fact, according to The Grand Plan, be seven. I mean, I could hardly leave Tus and Garsiv on such horrible terms, could I? I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter; they never fail to make my day!


	5. Moon

Author Notes: Thank you guys once again for all the support! Change of pace this chapter (because any Garsiv/Tus reconciliation was never going to happen quietly). Sorry it's a little later than I had meant - got all the way through editing on doc-manager as fanfic went down before I could save. Typical. But never mind, because here it is!

Chapter 5: Moon

Dastan blamed himself. Why had he never said anything? Why had he never thought? It was bad enough that he had thought Bis would have been better without him in the first week of his stay at the palace, but that had just been a misguided mistake.

This? This was inexcusable. He had survived his life in the slums, he knew the score.

He used to know how to wake up at the drop of a pin, how to reach for a knife at his belt.

One month. One month of a home, and it would all be his fault.

Because he hadn't woken fast enough to stop the gag being secured around his mouth. He hadn't been able to yell, to alert the guards, to wake his brothers and get them to run.

Because thieves and murderers are opportunists, and what better opportunity would there be than one of their own within the palace walls?

All they had to do was get in without getting caught – a feat much easier when they were not children like Bis, but men who had scratched and slit their way to adulthood in the slums of Nasaf. Because to get out, all they needed was Dastan.

* * *

Dastan glared at Javed as he bent over him, tying the gag tight. His eyes darted, trying to fix on the shadows in the darkness. Javed grinned as he hissed, "Nice place you got here, boy. Real good set up."

Dastan looked away stubbornly. He didn't really need to count the shadows. If Javed was here, then that meant that Ahriman and the rest of his gang would be here too. The slum gang of Nasaf who the street boys like Dastan and Bis had avoided at all costs. Often there were whispers, whispers of boys like them being press-ganged into doing Ahriman's work, but all Dastan needed to know was that they were merciless, and that they were in the palace.

There was a muffled shout and a crash that caused Dastan's head to whip around in the direction of the hall, but it was silenced all too quickly. Dastan clenched his fists; it had sounded like Garsiv.

And then Javed was grabbing him roughly by the chin, forcing him to look back into the man's dark eyes. "Now. You listen to me, _Prince_ Dastan. You're going to show us the best way out of this place without getting caught. Don't even try and deny that you don't know any. You and I both know that you wouldn't have let yourself stay here without an escape route." He roughly pulled Dastan to his feet, dragging him out into the darkened hallway, before grabbing him tightly by the shoulder and hissing in his ear, "Remember, before you go try anything funny, we only need one prince to get the ransom."

And then Dastan realised what was happening. This was nothing to do with him – he was just a convenient window of opportunity. The men were here for Tus and Garsiv. They were here to kidnap the King's sons, and only heirs to the throne. Dastan felt sick.

Out of the darkness began emerged shadows; cloaks that blended into nothingness, footsteps as soft as a breeze. A grizzled young man Dastan recognised as Kas came up to stand by Javed, and Dastan flinched to see that on his shoulder he carried an unconscious Garsiv, blood already matting into his dark hair. Not long after, Azad and Sarfraz, older members of the gang, came out of one of the side passages, bulging clothbags – no doubt full of only a handful of the riches that filled the palace – strapped securely to their backs. Azad nodded to Kas, "Where's the other one? Thought there were three of them?"

"Mehtab's getting him now." Azad shifted Garsiv's dead weight, causing the prince's head to loll at an awkward angle.

Sure enough, a wiry man, mostly covered by the heavy brown cloak that obscured the majority of his body, seemed to materialise out of nowhere, grappling with a violently struggling Tus. Sarfraz shook his head, "Why didn't you just knock 'im out?"

"You want to try carrying him, then go ahead." And then there was a flash of silver, and a pressure at Tus' neck as Dastan watched his older brother fall still under the threat of the blade. "One more move, and you start losing your pretty little fingers. And trust me – it hurts. More'n a hand, I'd wager." Mehtab grinned a yellow, blackened grin, showing his left hand to a wide-eyed Tus for the first time. Or rather, his left stub, where flesh met leather straps and sharp metal.

Javed grinned savagely at Tus, his grip on Dastan's upper arm tightening with his malice, "You'll find our blades even less discriminatory than your Persian ones."

"Are you done playing?" Dastan and Tus jumped as another voice pierced the darkness, "We need to go! Dawn is only four hours away, and we tipped the horse thieves to leave Nasaf in three." Dastan blinked in confusion at the imposing Ahriman – what was that supposed to mean?

But then Ahriman had rounded on Javed and Dastan. Javed nodded, "Lead the way Dastan, or my blade might slip. I'm sure Kas would appreciate his cargo when it is a few pints of blood lighter."

Dastan panicked, his eyes involuntarily seeking out Tus. His older brother gave him a nearly imperceptible nod; they didn't have a choice, no one was coming to help.

This was all his fault. He was going to get his brothers killed. Or worse.

* * *

Garsiv came awake with a pounding head and a foul taste in his mouth. "Garsiv?" Who was that? Tus? "Garsiv, can you hear me?"

"Ow..." Garsiv blinked away stars, his mind sluggishly trying to work out what was going on. And then he remembered. The man, the club, and then...nothing. Awkwardly, he tried to sit up, made all the more difficult by the rough rope that bit into his wrists. He squinted into the darkness, "Dastan? Tus?"

"We're both here." Tus answered grimly, "Though where here is..."

"We're in eastern Nasaf." Dastan supplied quietly, "In Ahriman's den, probably."

"You _know_ the beast that clubbed me?" Garsiv hissed.

"Yes, but that was Kas, another member of Ahriman's gang. I know them by reputation mostly, but we have crossed paths...before." The way Dastan skirted around the issue told both brothers more than they needed to know.

"So, what's going on then?" Tus asked Dastan.

"We've been kidnapped, you dolt." Garsiv snapped back in a harsh whisper.

Tus ignored the jibe, knowing that Garsiv would only be testier than usual with that head wound, and that arguing would help no one, "I mean, what do you think they plan to do? I hate to say it Dastan, but you have a much better idea of what is going on than us..." Dastan, bit his lip, shrugging, and Tus sighed, "Dastan, for the last time, _none _of this could have been helped. You are as much a prisoner as us. Now, if you were downstairs with that rabble, drinking beer and laughing over what you would be doing to us, then fine, but you're not. You may have been closer kin to them at one time, but now you're a prince, and you're as kidnapped as us."

Dastan frowned, before offering a weak smile as Garsiv nodded in agreement. A steely resolve solidified within the youngest brother, and he nodded, "They will want a ransom from the King. Earlier Ahriman said something about tipping off horse thieves. I think that they're using them as a decoy. If a group of riders are seen leaving Nasaf at around the same time as our kidnapping is discovered, then the soldiers will pursue them. Ahriman won't care if the thieves get caught, and the thieves are probably willing to take the risk. While the distraction is made, they'll sneak us out, probably tomorrow night."

"And then we'll really be in trouble." Tus muttered grimly.

Garsiv rubbed his head, "I don't understand – it is not as if they could hope to collect a ransom without getting a sword in them for their troubles."

Dastan shrugged, "Ahriman might be scum, but he's clever. He must have a plan."

Tus didn't say anything. He had already worked out the answer to Garsiv's question; as long as Ahriman had more than one prince, he had leverage, and the advantage.

Instead of letting the other two boys in on his conclusions, Tus began to scan the room in which they were being held. It was dark and dusty, and the makeshift door was bolted solid with multiple locks and chains. And then he squinted. As the night begun to recede, the filtered silver moonlight was starting to give way to a softer golden glow. Scrambling to his feet, mindful of his bound hands, Tus began pulling away at the pile of hole-ridden rugs, the rugs that partially obscured their growing light source.

While the small window holes above them gave light, they were meagre in size, and offered no opportunity. But here, here was a hole created through the weathering of sand and the crumbling of gypsum. "Help me widen this!" Tus hissed, all too aware of the guard outside the door.

Garsiv and Dastan exchanged a look, before both boys scrambled over. The hole was small, situated where the wall met the floor, but the edges were weak and fragile. Dastan turned around, and gave the wall a hard kick at the edge of the hole. His first kick caused the soft gypsum to give way easily, but the second was harder, and the third didn't budge. While the hole was now slightly wider, it was still too small to be any use, and the edges were now no longer weak. Garsiv shook his head, "Move over."

Despite his spinning head, Garsiv managed to make the hole a little wider. And then all three froze as there was a harsh banging on the door, "Shut up in there! No 'mount of banging is gonna help you now! No one'll hear yer!"

The three boys barely breathed, but allowed their tense muscles to loosen somewhat when it became clear that Sarfraz wasn't coming into check on them. Tus held up a hand to signal them to be quieter, before saying in barely a breath of a whisper to Garsiv, "How wide is it?"

Garsiv grimaced, "As wide as it's going to get without them coming in here." He bent forward, sticking his head out of the hole, "Well, that was a pointless exercise."

Tus frowned, and copied Garsiv. He could understand his brother's despondency. They were at least two storeys up, with a vertical drop into a narrow alley. He cursed mentally. While he had known he would not have been able to fit through the hole, he had hoped that both of his brothers would have been able to make it. Instead, he looked to Dastan, "Can you make it?"

"_What?_" Garsiv hissed. "Did they hit you on the head as well? He'll be killed!"

Tus didn't reply as Dastan poked his head out of the hole, gauging the distance and the jumps. The younger boy bit his lip, "Yes. I think so. If they had tied my hands behind me then I would've had a problem, but this-" He waved his bound hands in front of him, "-This isn't too bad."

"Then I want you to go. Leave us." Tus nodded.

Dastan gaped, before glaring angrily, "I'm not leaving you both!"

Garsiv, for once, remained silent as Tus shook his head at Dastan, taking his bound hands in his own, looking more like a man than Garsiv could ever remember, "You're the only one who can make it. Someone needs to alert the palace guard, and, however much I hate that I must say it, you are not as valuable as me or Garsiv. These men have limited use for you, and I do not think I need to tell you how much more danger that puts you in. Dastan, little brother, please do as I ask."

Dastan bit his lip, his throat tight as he looked between his two brothers. This was his fault, so now he had to fix it. He was the only one who could! "Okay."

With Garsiv and Tus' help, Dastan was lowered out of the hole feet first, the brothers holding onto his bound arms as he gained a foothold. At Dastan's nod, they let go of him, allowing him to support his own weight, his hands now the only part of him still inside the hole. Dastan looked below him, gauging the tricky route, before looking back to his brothers, "I'll bring back help."

Tus smiled softly, "I know you will."

Garsiv nodded jerkily, "Watch yourself, mouse. Don't do anything stupid."

And then Dastan was gone, just another shadow on the wall. When Tus heard his feet hit ground level, he sighed, pulling back and replacing the rugs over the hole, "He'll be okay. He'll make it back to Uncle."

"And get the guards to mount a rescue." Garsiv added.

Tus didn't reply, an odd look on his face. Instead, he drew his brother into one of the patches of growing light from the upper vent holes, "Let me have a look at your head."

"It's fine." Garsiv jerked out of Tus' reach, uncomfortable to be faced with this strange incarnation of his older brother.

Tus nodded placidly, falling back on his heels. Silence reigned, but it was not long until a great tolling bell began to float to them on the wind. The servants must have found them missing. With any luck, the increased response would mean Dastan was found faster.

A murmuring outside the door drew Tus attention, and he felt Garsiv tense beside him, "-water. Can't have them dying on us before we get our gold!"

The door swung open with the scrap of pulled back chains, and the man known as Javed looked in, his expression quickly hardening from simple annoyance to utter fury, "That rat's gone! The boy Dastan!"

"_What?_" Sarfraz came around the door, only to be punched by Javed.

"Go tell Ahriman! Now!" And then Javed was advancing on them, "Where is the little snake?"

He grabbed Garsiv by the hair, pulling him bodily to his feet, his other hand already on his knife.

"Get off him!" Tus leapt at Javed, successfully dislodging his grip on Garsiv as he looped his bound arms around the other man's neck, pulling hard. Javed lashed out with his knife, catching Tus on the arm, but the prince held on until someone else grabbed him around the waist and bodily threw him into the wall.

"Enough!" Ahriman shouted from the doorway as Javed stood coughing, and Azad towered over Tus. "They are boys, you incompetents, and you have already allowed one to escape!"

"Wouldn't have gotten a good ransom for him anyway." Sarfraz shrugged, rubbing his jaw from where Javed had hit him.

"Yes, but now he can lead the royal guard straight to us! That child knows the streets as well as any – the guards could be on their way here now." Mehtab had emerged from the shadows, exchanging a dark look with Ahriman, "We need to change the plan; get out of the city."

"With those two in tow? Not likely." Azad scoffed.

"Maybe if we do a little amputation they might be more...compliant." Javed fingered his knife with a nasty look at Tus.

"You already know that you will never get out of this city alive." Tus spoke, drawing himself up to sit against the wall, "But I can get you out. I know where the city guards will be at their thinnest at this time."

"Tus!" Garsiv hissed in shock at his older brother – what did he think he was doing?

Tus ignored him, stared coldly up as Ahriman, who sneered, "Now why would you want to make such a foolish offer like that, Prince Tus?"

"Because I won't help you, unless you leave my brother here. I am worth more to you than he is, and one prince is easier to smuggle than two. If you leave him here, you have my word that you will get out of this city."

"The word of a Persian Prince? What use is that to me, words?" Ahriman asked with a cold laugh.

Tus smirked, "Because you know as well as I that if you do not take up my offer, you are all dead."

"And why should we think that you are not trying to draw us into a trap?" Mehtab asked.

"Because I believe that you are in this for the gold, which, if we follow my plan, you will still get. And we all get out of this alive." Tus' eyes did not waiver from Ahriman's face, and after an age, the man nodded slowly.

"Javed, Azad, get Kas and gather what we need. We travel light. Sarfraz, go and stand watch on the roof – look out for the royal guard." Ahriman bent down so that he was nose to nose with Tus, "We have a deal, my _Prince_. But one wrong move, and Mehtab will not hesitate to use his knife, do we have an understanding?"

"As long as Garsiv remains here unharmed, then we do." Tus did not back down.

"Of course, Prince Tus. You have _my_ word, as a humble thief." He grinned an unsettling smile before rising to his feet, pulling Mehtab aside by the door, his murmuring too low to understand.

Garsiv scrambled over to Tus, his eyes wide with anger, "What do you think you are _doing?_ You're the Crown Prince!"

Tus' head snapped down to look at Garsiv, his eyes hard with determination, "And you're my little brother! I got Dastan to safety, and now I have done the same for you."

Garsiv flinched back in shock, the confused mix of fear and tight control in his older brother's eyes filling him with a sense of dread. And then, before he could even form a reply, before he could even say the myriad of things he suddenly desperately wanted to say to his brother, Mehtab had strode forwards, hoisting Tus up to his feet with a strong grip to his elbow, "Hope you've said your goodbyes." His sneer hit something deep within Garsiv, something that he could not quite define, "Move it, boy!"

And then Tus was gone, the door was slammed, and Garsiv realised what he felt like.

He felt like that was going to be the last time he ever saw his brother.

* * *

Garsiv was unsure how long it had been since the voices from downstairs had ceased. He hoped Dastan brought people back here soon; there was only one route he could think of where Tus would be taking the men, and if they hurried, they could get there in time.

A scraping sound, like leather on stone, and Garsiv frowned. If it were the royal guard, then surely there would be yelling?

And then there was a soft chinking of metal at the doorway, and Garsiv knew his head wound was not making him hallucinate. With an unsteady awkwardness, Garsiv rose to his feet, unconsciously placing his feet in a defensive stance, even if he lacked the use of his hands.

The door swung open, and Garsiv knew in that instance that Ahriman had gone back on the deal. Sarfraz, Azad and Kas stood in the doorway, swords draw and sick grins on their faces. Kas smirked, "Don't be a fool, boy. Did you and your brother really believe that we would just _leave _a gold-spinner like you?"

"We're moving you; in case something should happen to your brother." Azad strode forwards, making a grab for Garsiv, who struggled without success.

"Unless you'd rather we just run you through now, and be done with it?" Kas asked pleasantly. Sarfraz laughed at Kas' words, but then his laugh turned to choking, a blood filled bubbling spray as he was cut off by a bolt though his back.

"Guards!" Azad yelled, throwing Garsiv aside and brandishing his sword.

The following minutes were bloody and short, ending with three dead thieves. And then a man Garsiv recognised rushed into the room, throwing aside his sword, "Uncle!"

"Garsiv, my boy! When Dastan was found, we feared the worst!" Nizam grasped Garsiv tightly, ignoring the prince's attempts to bat his hands away, "You must be so distressed, and your head! Guards, search for Prince Tus!"

"No, Uncle, you don't understand-" But then he was cut off by another man handing his Uncle something...smelling salts?

"For your head wound. Please, Garsiv, stay still, you are safe now."

"No, Uncle, I..." Garsiv's head began to spin, and there were too many people and not enough air. What had been in that bottle? No...he couldn't fall asleep, Tus, Tus needed him, "Uncle, Tus, they..."

"Shush, don't talk, we need to get you back to the Citadel. Rayan! Help me with Prince Garsiv!" And then another body was next to him, and the colours all began to blur, the reds of the guards' uniforms blending with the reds of the blood on their hands. And nothing would focus, and wasn't there something he needed to say?

Too late, and darkness fell. It was not until many hours later that Garsiv awoke to be greeted by the worried face of his little brother, in his own familiar chambers at the palace. As he looked into Dastan's drawn and tired face, almost ethereal in the silver glow of the moon, its light drifting gently through the balcony window, he remembered what he had been trying to say."Tus..."

Dastan bit his lip, folding his legs under himself as he curled up on Garsiv's bed, facing his brother. And then one word brought rushing back all the thoughts, feelings, regrets and fears that Garsiv had long kept buried, "Gone."

To Be Continued...

Author Notes: I really, really hope you like this, and that it all makes sense! I just felt the brothers would need a little kick to get them all to the point of their relationship in the movie :) Please let me know what you think!


	6. Stars

Author Notes: So this chapter is HUGE. Through the course of its writing, it also became known as Operation Dig-Tus-Out with my beta, as I realised how much of a hole I'd put him in at the end of the last chapter (seriously...I actually felt kinda guilty until I realised how much fun I was having!) Anyway, thank you all again, lovely people *big hugs*. You never fail to make my day, and I hope this chapter meets all your expectations!

Chapter 6: Stars

Tus hit the rocky sand heavily on his knees. They had finally stopped as the sun was swallowed by the horizon. He blinked slowly, his mind too clouded for quick thought. He had no idea where they were, only that they had been travelling west for eight days now, since he had last seen his brothers in Nasaf. The terrain was unfamiliar to him, but Ahriman seemed to know where they were headed.

Eight days.

At first, he had talked back, questioned, fought. When it had become clear on the disappearance of three of the men after they had escaped Nasaf's walls what had happened, Tus had scratched and bit, dug his heels in and yelled. But it had all been to no avail, and now? Now, he could barely lift his head.

For the first few days, to gain distance on the Persian patrols, he had rode on the back of a stolen horse, but now, now he walked behind. The rope that had bound his hands eight days ago was still there, biting deeply into the skin of his wrists, rubbing even the most innocent grain of sand into the blisters that had formed there. But his wrists were nothing compared to his feet; he had been kidnapped without boots, and although Javed had bound the soles of his feet in strips of cloth, these had long been dirtied and half torn away. His clothes were not much better than the rest of him; the finery he had worn was long gone, traded in a local village for clothes more befitting of a peasant. That had been three days ago, and Tus had been too tired to question; even he could see the benefit of appearing to drag a slave boy from a horse instead of a prince. That had been the same day they had cut his hair.

Tus watched dully as Mehtab led the horses to drink at the trickle of water that ran close to their camp. He licked his cracked lips – an act that did not go unseen by Javed, "Thirsty, Prince Tus?"

Tus just glared at him, not even sure if he could get his dry throat to form words at this moment in time. Mehtab cut across Javed's fun, "Take the boy to water. He's no good to us dead."

And then Tus was hauled to his feet once more, half staggering as he was dragged to the water and forced to his knees. He didn't even bother using his hands, uncaring of what they thought of him, such was his thirst. All too soon, Javed dragged him back up, depositing him back where he had first dropped and tying the rope around his hands to one of the stakes set in for the horses' hobbles.

Tus shook his head slightly, trying to dispel the dizziness brought on by such sudden movement, "Please-" He loathed to beg them, but he didn't think he could deal with this much longer, "Please, I need more water. You've allowed the horses more than I."

Javed smirked, "When you bear us through the desert, we might allow you more water. Until then, you have had all you need."

"My father will not pay for my corpse." Tus ground out with as much arrogance as he could muster without showing his exhaustion.

And then, to Tus' utter confusion, Mehtab laughed, "Your father? Idiot boy – have you really not realised? Why would we risk our necks trying to get a ransom for you from the King?"

Tus blinked, utterly wrong-footed, not knowing what to say, "If not ransom, then what-"

And then he jumped, as Ahriman suddenly slipped up beside him in a crouch, seeming to have materialised out of the dusk at his ear, his foul breath turning Tus' stomach as much as his words, "Corpses are no use to us, that is true. But you should be assured that we intend to bring you mostly unharmed to our buyer."

Tus swallowed thickly, "Buyer?"

Ahriman's calloused hand snaked around and grasped at the tendons at Tus' neck hard enough to elicit a gasp, "You may think that Persia rules the world, little prince, but you are not loved by all. Your father might pay well, and slit our throats for our efforts, but the King of Himyarite will pay us more, and we will have our lives as well." Tus froze. Himyarite; a kingdom at the southern peninsula of Arabia and an enemy of Persia. He felt sick, a horrible roiling sensation clutching at his stomach and his throat. Ahriman grinned, "We travel to Zafar, for an audience with King Yakrib Malek Zarih. I anticipate him to be very _enthusiastic_ about our offer. So I would get some sleep, if I were you, Prince Tus. We have a long journey ahead of us, and no one is coming to your rescue. Do not look so shocked – why must I have low aspirations? A man must make his own way in this world, and this is mine."

Tus had no reply, an odd calm sense of despondency settling on his shoulders as the danger and truth in Ahriman's words sunk in. There was no way out. He watched as the fires were lit, crackled, and died to their embers as the three men began to drift to sleep. Still Tus did not move, huddled in on himself against the ice of the desert night, his body shaking with the extreme change in temperatures. Unbidden, his eyes sought out the heavens, where he knew the royal star of the east, Tascheter, watched over his home of Nasaf, brightest with the fading winter season. And then he glanced to the north, seeking out Haftorang, knowing his father resided somewhere safely in between the two in Aspanbar. And then, finally, he forced his eyes to find Venant, of the south, and Satevis, of the west, and for the first time in his life, he looked upon them with a dread born of the lands they shone over. Four bright diamonds, enveloped in the spray of silver pinpricks scattered in intricate webs across the sky, mirroring no spots of golden fires from the cities below them as far as his eyes could see.

As a Prince of Persia, Tus was proud to know that he had never felt small, and guilty to have thought he would never truly understand how insignificant Dastan often thought himself.

Now, curled in rags and sharing heat with horses, he had never felt so small and helpless, under the spread of heaven with thieves at his back.

* * *

"Prince Garsiv! Please cease this behaviour immediately!" Dabir shouted at his charge, who was currently in the act of throwing a filigree metal table into the wall a hair's breadth from Dabir's head. The other young prince, Dastan, sat impassively watching from his position cross-legged on Garsiv's bed. "You are a prince of this Empire! You will act accordingly, or I will be forced to fetch your Uncle!"

"Then go ahead and fetch him already!" Garsiv yelled back, "While you're at it, you may inform him that I will be participating in no more of your '_lessons'!" _Dastan winced. He could have told Nizam to begin with that starting Garsiv on any form of task that usually involved all three princes was a bad idea.

"Your father returns in a day, do you really wish him to hear of your behaviour at a time like this?"

Dastan felt slightly for Dabir in that moment – he would have thought the man would have had more sense at this point in Garsiv's rage than to bring up Sharaman's feelings of his sons. He was also mildly impressed by their tutor's reflexes in that instance as he dodged a rather expensive looking urn that came flying through their air to smash against the wall. "Leave!" Garsiv yelled, anger clearly not spent.

And finally, admitting defeat, Dabir whipped about and stormed away, no doubt to fetch Nizam for what felt like the hundredth time in the past week; Garsiv had not been doing well at managing his temper recently. "Next time you should throw fruit." Dastan commented lightly, "They're lighter and quicker – he won't see them coming to be able to duck in time."

Garsiv's shoulders heaved, but Dastan's words had done well to defuse his anger. He sat heavily next to his little brother, "I can't do this anymore."

"Really? Sirdar always said your tempers had no end."

"I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant." Dastan cut across him softly, knowing Garsiv's hatred of voicing any emotion other than anger.

"Do you know what Father will say when he arrives tomorrow?" Dastan frowned, unsure what Garsiv was thinking. The dark-haired boy continued, his voice void of any emotion now that Dabir was gone, "He will explain gently about the importance of the Persian Empire, about how it wasn't our fault, about how we must go on, until Tus is found. But he won't mean that. It's been nearly ten days, and with no word or ransom, they will begin to make preparations. Father won't give up hope, of course he won't. But they will need to act in the name and good of the Empire."

Dastan fidgeted, not liking the conclusions he was drawing from Garsiv's words, "I don't understand. Of course King Sharaman won't give up hope – over half the Persian army is out looking for Tus..."

And then Garsiv raised his head to lock eyes with Dastan, obsidian against crystal, both as scared as the other, "Tus is the Crown Prince. He was always the son destined to be King. I can't...I don't..."

Dastan shook his head violently, "They'll find Tus!"

"Do you really believe that? Dastan, you know better than any what Ahriman might do! The soldiers will be finding our brother's bleached bones!" Garsiv's voice cracked slightly, as finally he voiced what he feared the most. What he had feared since he awoke nine mornings previous, and discovered that the brother who had always been a steady annoying presence at his back was gone, leaving him cold.

And then Garsiv frowned, watching as a strange spark lit behind his brother's eyes at his words, "You're right. I _do_ know those men. And so do many others."

"What are you blabbering on about?" Garsiv rubbing his temples, feeling a headache building behind his eyes.

"I don't do sitting very well." Dastan said carefully, rolling the words off his tongue as a sly grin began to twist its way onto his face.

"You're telling me this like I had no idea." Garsiv smiled in a short wry laugh, "What is your point?"

"If the soldiers will do nothing more than find Tus' bones, then we will find Tus." Dastan stated with growing certainty. "We've waited long enough; we've done as the adults said. We've acted as noble, duty-bound princes. Now we act as brothers."

Garsiv just stared at the smaller boy, "Well said words, little brother, but even ignoring the problem of _us_ somehow tracking down Ahriman when the Persian army fails, you do realise that our wing of the palace is locked down tighter than a city under siege?"

Dastan shook his head, "We just need a plan. If we have one, will you come with me? If you think it would cause Sharaman too much grief, then I will go alone."

Garsiv bit his lip, a resolve he had not felt since before Tus' disappearance building within him, "It will cause Father pain if we run away on such a fool's errand, and I have doubts that any plan you or I muster would be of use to our brother. But I am not the heir to this Empire, and I never wish to be," He grinned, splintering the solemn atmosphere, "Besides, I don't do sitting very well either."

* * *

"You're going to break my neck!" Garsiv hissed as Dastan presented him with their escape route.

Dastan looked affronted, "What about_ my_ neck?"

"You could land on your head and still bounce." Garsiv snorted.

Dastan rolled his eyes, gesturing to the rope he had tied around the balcony ledge that was joined to Tus' room –the only room that overlooked the outer courtyards and walls. Only that morning, Garsiv had been standing in front of a 'disappointed' Nizam getting lectured about princely behaviour, all the while knowing Dastan was gathering together the mechanisms of their plan.

Now, under the cover of the inky cloudless night, the two brothers stood in the shadows, looking nothing like the princes they were. Head to toe dressed in clothes Dastan had wheedled out of some kitchen boys, the only indication of their rich background lay in the leather working of their packs and crafting of their blades. Garsiv had been nervous giving Dastan a sword, but had known that their plan was foolhardy enough as it was. The boy would have to learn soon enough.

That did not, of course, mean that Garsiv was letting Dastan loose on a horse by himself.

It had not been until late that evening that Garsiv had agreed to implement the plan on the same day the brothers had solidified their intent. As time had stretched beyond that morning, he had begun to realise the foolishness of their childish idea. But the situation had changed. A messenger had arrived at court with a missive from King Sharaman. A spy had given them information about a potential change of climate in southern Arabia, of a change of the wind. Sharaman suspected that Tus' kidnap was involved; their treaty with King Yakrib was balanced on the edge of a blade, and this turning of the knife could mean war, and his brother's death.

Dabir and Nizam had told the brothers the news in the hope it would make them feel as if Tus was close to being found.

To Dastan and Garsiv, it just felt as if Tus was getting further and further away. For Dastan, who had never left Nasaf in his life, the Arabian kingdoms were on the other side of the world.

And so Garsiv had written a note to their father and uncle, and now found himself trusting his little brother's ability to help him scale down the side of the palace, "I hate you."

Dastan landing lightly, jumping the last few feet. Garsiv closed his eyes, and copied him, staggering slightly. Dastan grinned at his brother's pale face, "Call it pre-emptive against you getting me on one of those crazed beasts with you for who knows how long."

Garsiv smiled evilly, and Dastan wished he had held his tongue.

A raid on the stables for a messenger horse, a sweeping of heavy cloaks, a securing of saddlebags, an implementing of Nizam's blasted smelling salts on the soldiers of the western guard post, and the brothers were out of the city before Satevis, guardian star of the west, had even risen fully in his sky. "No going back, little brother." Garsiv murmured in Dastan's ear, his arms reaching around the other boy to grasp the reins of the horse, turning her to their destination, and hopefully, Tus. "Hold on."

Dastan had never known horses were capable of such speed.

* * *

The first strike barely registered, while the second strike set stars to dance across his eyes in the bright midday sun, "Get up! Get up, or we will drag you the rest of the way."

Tus raised his head, intense hatred radiating from his gaze, "Then drag me. I cannot walk anymore, and I will no longer play your game."

Javed raised he hand to strike for a third time, but Ahriman caught it before he made it fall, "Take him up on your horse. I will not tolerate these delays. The boy is not a threat. Not anymore."

Javed scowled, "We did not split from Azad and the others to _carry_ this child most of the way."

"No, we got rid of them on a fool's errand because they were becoming a liability. Yakrib will want the boy at least semi-alive when we bring him to the court. Do as I say, Javed, or _you_ will find yourself a liability."

Tus had no energy to consider using this dissent between the men to his advantage; he had learnt days ago how Ahriman was so good at betrayal.

* * *

Dastan would have perhaps been slightly offended by Garsiv helping him down from the horse so that they could take a quick break, but he lacked the strength, "My hair hurts."

Garsiv laughed as he led their horse to the water, "I forget how unused you are to riding, especially over such ground. We will stop here for a little, but not too long." They had much ground to cover, and as a messenger horse, Esta was used to being pushed.

Garsiv sat down heavily next to Dastan, handing his brother some bread before stretching out his arm muscles. Dastan took to bread and tore into it hungrily, "Thanks."

The two brothers sat in silence for a while, enjoying the meagre shade cast by the rocky outcrop in the heat of the high sun. Finally, Garsiv broke the silence, "Do you think Uncle knows we are gone by now?"

Dastan shrugged, "He must do. No doubt he is leading a patrol in search of us right now."

Garsiv snorted, "Unlikely. Uncle actually knows his place as Persia's second son. Not like me."

"What?" Dastan frowned, unsure of where his brother's train of thought was headed.

"In the absence of the King, Nizam can't afford to abandon his post. If all the royal family were to be separated away from the court... It goes against duty. My being here goes against duty."

"Does this have something to do with Nizam's talk with you yesterday?"

"He said no more than what he has before. My duty is to act in place of my brother when something like this happens. For the good of the _Empire_. But here I am, out looking for Tus, and risking both our lives in the process."

Dastan shrugged, "I don't see what's wrong with that."

Garsiv sighed, "That's the problem, and what I don't understand – neither do I." He shook his head, and cleared his throat, "We should get going again."

Dastan groaned good-naturedly as Garsiv helped him back up onto Esta. But before Garsiv kicked them into moving again, Dastan twisted his head slightly to the side, "I'm glad you're a different second son than Nizam."

Garsiv frowned, "Why? Our Uncle is a great man, and a true brother to Father."

"Yes, but can you honestly imagine being an advisor to Tus? Persia would fall to its knees in horror; your temper is scary on a good day. Besides, you have too much hair."

Garsiv's retort was lost in the wind whipped up by Esta's speed.

* * *

"My Lord, scouts report a small camp not an hour behind us to the south."

Sharaman kept his face impassive as he nodded his thanks to Sirdar, not wanting to hope that this is what they had all been waiting for, "Is it them?"

"It is uncertain. The fire is small, as if they wish to remain undiscovered, but we cannot discern more until we get closer. My men await your orders, sire."

"Pack up camp – we ride there now to surprise them. If they are not those who hold my son, then we might hope that they have information for us nonetheless."

Sirdar bowed his head, "Immediately, Highness."

It took barely a small flurry of movement to douse the fires and get all the men back on their horses; ever since word had come of activity near the Arabian borders, a new determination had spread about the men. They wanted to find their Prince as much as their King did.

* * *

Dastan jerked awake, his hand clasped tightly around the handle of his knife. It was Garsiv. After too much hard riding, they had been forced to stop for the night, lest Garsiv fell straight off the horse while they were in motion. Dastan gave his brother a soft nod, and Garsiv removed the hand he had clasped about Dastan's mouth. He raised a finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence. The fire had already been put out, "I heard horses, not too far away from here. It could be innocent travellers, but we can't risk being careless. We should ride."

Dastan frowned with concern, "Are you rested enough?"

"Esta is, and that is all that matters." Garsiv shook his head, "We need to go, _now_. I have a strange feeling that they will be back."

Dastan recognised the look in Garsiv's eyes, and nodded despite his misgivings, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet by his arm as Garsiv already made to push up onto their horse. In a now practiced move, Dastan had soon swung up to join him, cloak pulled tightly around his body to stave off the night air. Garsiv kicked Esta into a fast canter, taking her slightly back the route they had come before heading them in a more southerly direction by Venant's light.

But then Dastan heard Garsiv curse, and Esta's speed picked up even more. Wind and clouds of sand were kicked up around them as Garsiv directed Esta in a much more erratic course then they had been on before. And the world titled as Esta reared against another horse blocking her path, and Garsiv yelled, and suddenly Dastan found himself flat on his back in a pile with his brother, fumbling for his sword as he avoided crushing hooves.

"Stand where you are!" And rough hand grabbed the hood of Dastan's cloak, stealing his breath as he was manhandled off the ground. He kicked and struggled, and then, "_Dastan?_"

Dastan froze, focussing on the face of his attacker for the first time, "Captain Sirdar?" He twisted, searching out his brother in the confusion, "Garsiv – they're Persians!"

Sirdar blanched at Dastan's words, "Garsiv as well?"

Garsiv, however, had already dropped his sword, standing directly before another man on a horse, "Hello Father."

Sharaman stared down at his second son, his eyes flicking to where Sirdar now stood beside Dastan before returning to look at Garsiv. And here he had believed they were chasing down one of the thieves... Hurriedly, he dismounted, kneeling to embrace the boy, "Garsiv, my son, what are you doing here?"

"We came to find Tus." Garsiv stated obviously.

Sharaman stared at his son, unsure of the stubborn gleam in his dark eyes, so familiar, yet caused by something so new. "I see you brought your brother with you as well?"

Garsiv nodded as Dastan walked forwards to stand next to his brother when Sharaman stood back up. The King grasped one shoulder of each brother, smiled with a sad affection, "While I cannot deny the honour and purity of your actions that have brought you here, you must know how foolhardy you have been."

Garsiv shook his head vehemently, "Tus would do it for one of us! He's our brother! What were we supposed to do, Father? Wait to hear of his death?"

Sharaman smiled grimly, "I understand what you are feeling, Garsiv, but this is no task for children. Sirdar – you and two of your men will take my sons back to Nasaf."

"I have never been a child, Father, and Tus is our brother. We will not return to Nasaf. We will help you." Sharaman looked down, but then he realised that it had not been his second son who had spoken so softly, yet with such conviction. It had been Dastan. He stared at the resolute gaze locked with his own, "Please, Father, let us help you find Tus."

And against his better judgement, against the council of his men, Sharaman found himself nodding, if only for the whispering of his heart, pulled by one simple word. Father.

"So be it. We ride west. All of us."

* * *

"I do not like this plan." Sirdar muttered to himself as his hand rested on the concealed hilt of his blade, a dark cloak pulled about him.

Garsiv snorted, "It's Dastan's. His plans are never likeable. But you must admit to his logic – would you rather Father and half your cohort ride through the city gates, colours flying?"

"Byblos' rulers are vassals of Persia, and a good ally." That morning, they had arrived on the western coast, and found themselves in easy distance of the market port of Byblos. It was then that Dastan had suggested the gathering of information.

Garsiv shook his head, "And what would her rulers know of three thieves and a boy? Dastan is not exactly an obvious candidate to be a prince. He will get answers, should there be any."

"He has been gone too long. Your father will be starting to worry."

"Well, good information takes time. Father will understand that." Sirdar and Garsiv both jumped as Dastan suddenly swung out of nowhere to land at their feet, grinning, "We should go."

Garsiv reached forwards and picked a strange sticky substance out of Dastan's hair, examining it gingerly, "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not."

"Did you find anything out?" Sirdar cut across them.

Dastan's expression turned serious, "Yes, rumours, whispers. Always better than what people think are fact. I need to speak to Father – we're closer than he thought, but we need to hurry."

* * *

"You are mad." Tus stated from his position half stood behind Javed as the three men talked with a group of nomads they had come across a few hours ago when they camped.

Mehtab scowled and cuffed Tus so hard about the back of his head that his ears rang, "You will hold your tongue, slave!"

Tus, however, could not hold his tongue, "You wish to travel by horseback through the Sinai, with no knowledge of its terrain? That is not a shortcut, it's suicide!"

"I could remove his tongue for you, if you so wish? For but a _small_ fee." One of the nomads, half covered in strange tattoos, with a wicked gleam in his eye, interrupted Mehtab's intended rebuke.

Tus swallowed, his eyes now fixed on the man in poorly veiled terror, refrained from voicing his opinion further. There was something about the man that made his skin crawl, and he felt that he would not be sleeping much while in his presence. Ahriman shook his head firmly, "The price you ask for guiding us through Sinai is steep enough, old man. But we thank you for your counsel."

"Surely men such as yourselves would be better served simply taking the trade routes to Arabia?"

Javed shook his head, "We have no love for the Persian army, shall we say, and leave it at that."

"As you will, Persian."

"Indeed." Ahriman folded his arms slightly, but recognised the nomad's backing down, "You may share our camp tonight, so that you might point us in the direction we need in the morning."

"Of course. We would only be too happy to do so for such fine men as yourselves."

Tus gaped at Ahriman, who nodded and smiled, gesturing everyone to sit by the fire and eat. Was the man a complete idiot? Did they not _see _these people's eyes? But then Javed had taken him back to the horses, and he was out of the fire's light.

He had a really bad feeling about this. His skin chilled, despite the still-mild evening air, and he shivered, running his bound hands through his shortened hair.

And then his head snapped up, a strange yelled gurgling coming from the direction of the fire, and the light flickered just in time for him to see Javed fall forwards into the fire clutching his throat.

What followed was short, bloody, and entirely expected from Tus' point of view. Sirdar had always told him stories of those men twisted enough to be able to make their homes in such a dead region of the world as Sinai, and now it seemed he spoke the truth.

So Ahriman, Javed and Mehtab would never get their gold.

If the look on the nomad's face was anything to go by, Tus was beginning to honestly believe that he would wish he had been sold to Yakrib. "Check their packs – see what they had. And look over our new horses." He crouched in front of Tus as the other men set to work, "So, slave, what are we to do with you?"

"I don't know." Tus tried to pull away as the man took his chin, forcibly turning his head from side to side, inspecting his face.

The man made a sucking sound through his rotten teeth, as if pondering something, "Your face is passable enough to fetch a good price with the right buyer." He leered, and Tus' stomach turned. "Perhaps I will not remove your tongue after all."

Thud. Crunch. A spray of blood, and the man fell sideways, a bolt through his eye. Tus just blinked dumbly, barely aware of the crash of hooves and yells of men as new strangers swept the camp and created the bodies. He just stared at the corpse.

"Tus!" A clear voice sliced through the camp, and Tus immediately knew he must have passed out from the strain of it all. But then a small cloaked body collided with his own.

"Dastan?" His voice choked in disbelief, unable to understand how his brother was here. And then another boy was beside them, dark eyes clouded with concern, "Garsiv?"

Garsiv produced a knife, carefully cutting Tus's hands and peeling away the rope, shrugging, unsure what to say at a time like this, "We found you."

And then Tus launched himself at both boys, one arm wrapped around each. Even Garsiv, who was not known to ever allow human contact unless it involved him throwing a punch, returned the embrace with equal fervour, "My brothers." Sharaman knelt down next to his sons, the danger finally passed. Tus opened his eyes, and the brothers pulled apart slightly to look up, "Father."

Sharaman smiled, clasping at his eldest son's face with a weathered hand, "My son."

No one even considered burying the bloodied bodies that surrounded what had only minutes ago been a camp. For the first time in months, brothers and sons were together, and for the first time in what seemed like forever to Tus, they now turned east, the stars once more a comforting guide in the blackest of skies.

Sharaman watched as Sirdar helped Tus onto Esta to ride with Garsiv at both younger brothers' stubborn command, before offering to Dastan a hand to pull him up onto his own horse. As they moved away from that nightmare place, Sharaman vowed that something like this would never happen again.

It was time his sons saw more of their Empire, by his side, as it should be. Even he could recognise that leaving them alone in Nasaf was clearly not a very wise course of action at all...

To Be Continued...

Author Notes: Just one more chapter to go now! I hope you guys liked this chapter's action; it was definitely really fun to write, and now Tus is (finally) rescued, my guilt at putting him through all that is lessened... Anyway, I'd love to hear from you all, and what you thought of this instalment!


	7. Sun

Author Notes: This has to have been one of my favourite stories to write, and this chapter is for all you guys, especially those Bis-lovers out there. I can't thank you all enough for the unbelievable response you've given this story, and hope you like this final instalment! After this, I have 2 more Prince of Persia oneshots in the works, but as I'm disappearing out of the country for a couple of weeks, I may or may not be able to post them before I go. But keep your eyes peeled :D

Chapter 7: Sun

"Ten."

"Five."

"Eight."

"Seven."

"Done." Dastan grinned and twisted his knife into the pomegranate's leathery skin as Bis watched with interest.

"You won't do it." Bis folded his arms as he leant against the roughly hewn post.

"That's why you wouldn't bet me ten? If you were so _certain_?"

"Betting too highly is bad for you." Bis smirked.

"Betting too highly against me is bad for your pocket, you mean." Dastan snorted, biting into the sticky, half bitter, half sweet fruit, rolling the fleshy seeds in his month against his teeth.

Bis winced slightly, running a hand through his hair, "He's going to murder you."

"That relies on him being able to _catch _me." Dastan replied around the seeds, before-

"_Dastan!"_ Garsiv whirled around, catching half of the seed-barrage in his face as opposed to the back of his head, "Dastan! I'm going to kill you!"

Dastan grinned at Bis, "See you later!" And then he was gone, his voice floating back as Garsiv shot past Bis, "You owe me seven coins!"

"I'll deal with you once I've finished with him!" Garsiv yelled at Bis, who grinned at the empty threat and held his hands up innocently.

Tus, who had been brushing down his own horse after their ride around the hills that surrounded Aspanbar, laughed as he began to lead their horses to the stables with Bis' help. It had been over three years now, since the events that had surrounded Dastan becoming their brother, and this was their third annual visit to the city of Aspanbar with their father. Dastan appreciated the visits, and the other brothers had found that they liked Bis' company as well. Garsiv had been sceptical at first, but it had soon turned out that the three younger boys had gotten along well, in their own, unidentifiable way. Bis had changed a lot from the scared but stubborn boy Tus had met briefly all that time ago. He was now a young trainee soldier of the Persian ranks, and a highly gifted one at that. Garsiv was always quick to point out how Bis' skills on a horse never failed to exceed Dastan's. "I would warn you against letting Dastan bait poor Garsiv like that, but I fear it would be a futile conversation."

"I keep him out of trouble when I can, Prince Tus, but, well, this is Dastan we're talking about." Bis grinned amicably.

"And truer words could not be said." Tus hopped up to sit onto one of the stalls. He sighed, "I'll miss this."

Bis snorted, swiping his hair out of his eyes, "Aspanbar isn't exactly known for its exotic spices and colours, more its sweaty men and horses."

Tus smiled sadly. Bis had a similar quick tongue to that of Dastan, and an ability to skirt around a hard topic with tact, "Oh, I don't know. Surely you are used to it by now?"

There was a crash on the stable roof, and much shouting about spooking horses versus evil beasts. Bis raised an amused eyebrow at Tus, "Truly? I love it here. Time passes fast here. I hear the same of the barracks at Avrat, though they are supposed to be smaller."

"Yes, they do say that." Tus replied softly. Unlike his brothers, he was due to ride to Avrat with Nizam within the week. Not a few days past, he had turned nineteen, and King Sharaman had decided that it was time for his eldest son to take on more responsibilities. Part of this was his scheduled training at the royal barracks at Avrat, a city that, while a prominent fixture of the Empire, was not a place the boys had frequented much as children. Tus may have been a man for more than a year now, but it was Sharaman's opinion that time as an individual from his brothers would be good for him.

Bis could see the reasoning, but knew that both Dastan and Garsiv were nervous about the idea. And then Tus grinned, brushing away all seriousness, "Right. You catch Dastan. I'll go and make sure Garsiv hasn't broken his nose again chasing him."

Bis grinned, before shooting off. Tus shook his head in amusement at the boy's speed; the only person alive who actually had a chance beating Dastan at his monkey-like game. Bis would be good for Dastan when he completed his training, and might actually prevent Garsiv from killing their little brother, as he had the sense to balance whose side he took between the two brothers. Unlike Dastan, Bis actually bothered to take note of when Garsiv was in a bad mood.

Steeling himself, Tus walked outside, almost to be smacked straight into by a very sticky Garsiv, the heat of the sun having hardened the red juice into an odd pinkish sheen on his skin – Dastan had apparently abandoned the seeds in favour of the whole fruit. Quickly, Tus managed to catch hold of his brother, "Is this entirely necessary? We have an audience with Father within the hour."

Garsiv, for a moment, stopped trying to pull away, turning to his older brother with a completely straight face, "Of course. I didn't think." A pause, and Tus _knew_ he shouldn't have loosened his grip, "Tell Father that he should be expecting two sons and a corpse, will you?" And then Garsiv was gone, his taller build allowing him to get the slip on his brother.

"What was _that?_" Tus looked up to see Dastan balancing on a ledge that by right was far too thin for a bird, let alone a growing boy.

Tus shrugged with a grin, yelling back up to Dastan, "I did my brotherly duty. I tried. He's your problem now. Do try not to be late for Father."

"Traitor!" Dastan voice floated as he made a spectacular leap, catching onto a canopy and looping himself up into a roof to join the waiting Bis.

This would only end badly.

* * *

How Dastan could flit so effortlessly from a boy capable of scaling rooftops to waiting outside ornate doors in fine clothes, it would always mystify Tus. "Where's Garsiv?"

"No idea." Dastan grinned, leaning against a column. And then his eyes caught something in the corridor behind Tus, and he was forced to turn away, covering his mouth up with his hand to try and prevent his sniggering from escaping.

Tus frowned, and turned to see his other brother, "Oh dear..." Garsiv had a look on his face that could freeze the ocean, made entirely less threatening by his dark hair, even darker than usual thanks to the water that dripped down from the long loose strands onto the floor.

"Please move aside, Tus, I'm going to decapitate our brother." Garsiv said with deceptive mildness.

Dastan seemed more worried about getting his breath back from laughing, "You look nice, brother."

Garsiv glowered. Dastan never missed an opportunity to mock his hair, which was now making light work of making his robes nice and sodden, "Well, it was either this, or turn up in front of Father looking like I had gotten into a fight with a fruit stall and lost."

"Not an unlikely story." Dastan shrugged concedingly.

"Alright, that's enough!" Tus caught Garsiv before he could once again launch himself at Dastan. "You are lucky it is so warm today; you'll dry quicker. Now turn around."

Begrudgingly, Garsiv did as Tus bade him, waiting as his older brother made light work of knotting his wayward hair into a tight braid down his back, squeezing out some of the water as he went. Without really looking, Tus then proceeded to reach behind him, grabbing Dastan by the wrist and pulling him forward, gesturing to his brother, who rolled his eyes as he unwound some thin leather strapping from his wrist. In no time at all, Tus was done, and both his brothers were not only void of bruises and blood, but also looked mildly presentable, "Thank you." Garsiv muttered.

Tus quirked an eyebrow, "I know, what _would_ you two do without me? I know the servants are scared – you'll have to start coming to them for things like this once I'm in Avrat."

"I'm quite capable to braiding my own hair, brother."

"-But not when your hands are trying to strangle Dastan on their own accord, I know." Tus smirked, and Garsiv found himself returning the grin.

And then the doors were opened, servants pulling back the heavy wood to reveal the great hall of Aspanbar's citadel. To the brother's surprise and delight, there was only a mild entourage present in the room. It was another benefit of the army-focussed city. The men who lived there were practical, not overly obsessed with court life. "My sons!" Sharaman rose from his seat, Nizam standing a little way behind his brother. The bright afternoon sun played through the coloured drapes of the rooms, casting their father's crown in warm tints of red and purple. The room was cool and comfortable, and the family soon found themselves seated, laughing, drinking – although Tus was careful to watch how much wine Garsiv was slipping Dastan; the boy always had a bad reaction, and Garsiv knew it.

It was nice, and rare. And too soon, as Sharaman and Tus were all too aware of, it would become all the more infrequent. The sun was rising on a new age of Persia, as its newest sons began to venture out of their childhoods. Things could never stay the same.

* * *

Bis only just ducked in time, "I swear to the heavens, if you do not take that bow off him right now, he is going to kill half of Aspanbar!"

Garsiv complied as Dastan protested, "Oh, come on Bis! I'm not that bad!"

"Dastan, if it were possible to kill yourself with a blunt arrow in your hand and no bow, you would find a way of doing so." Garsiv sighed, "You are hopeless."

"Just because Bis can hit the target!" Dastan protested, "He's making me look bad, that's all. And you have high standards. People shouldn't be able to shoot a bow while riding a horse."

Bis raised an eyebrow, "The actual image of you going anywhere near a horse armed with a bow is actually terrifying to me."

"You're telling me." Garsiv shuddered, before gesturing behind him, "Go, sit, or do a handstand or something. You and projectiles don't mix. We should have learnt this last summer when Tus was foolhardy enough to give you a spear."

"Ha ha." Dastan bit back sarcastically.

* * *

"He will be fine, brother." Nizam walked up to join his brother on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, and the whole of Aspanbar. The city was cast in a brilliant orange glow, lit as it was by the rising of the day's new sun. Today was the day Tus left for Avrat to begin his advanced training.

"I know; it is just in my nature to worry." Sharaman smiled as he cast his eyes below them, where his three sons were laughing about something while helping to prepare the horses for the journey. Garsiv never had gotten into the habit of trusting the care of the royal charges to anyone but himself or Rostam. "This will be a test for them."

"As is life." Nizam nodded, "But perhaps the time apart will do them good."

Sharaman laughed, "And before Dastan, I might have agreed with you brother, but now I am of the mind to believe that it will make no difference at all to them. Did it for us?"

"The boy is not blood as we were-"

"And your argument to that end is growing tired. They do not need blood to connect them; they have something far stronger. They owe each other their lives, and know what it would be like to exist without the others. It will serve them well."

"They are still children." Nizam sighed at his brother's fantasy ideas.

Sharaman shook his head at Nizam, watching fondly as Garsiv and Dastan said goodbye to Tus in their own unique way, unaware that they were being watched by their father; Dastan, with a tight embrace, Garsiv, with a tight grasping of arms. And then, as was oft to happen, it ended inevitably with the two younger boys somehow tripping each other up, resulting in a scuffle that Tus was then forced to pull apart between laughs.

His sons, the future of Persia, standing tall with the rising of the sun. Sharaman smiled, having achieved his piece of mind. He turned to Nizam, "Have a safe journey, brother."

And before the sun had even fully claimed its place in the morning sky, two generations of royal brothers found themselves separated by an ever increasing stretch of sand.

The older pair thought nothing of it, too used to the habit, too sure of the place of their brotherhood in the scheme of the world.

The younger set felt it strongly, but understood the worth of the bond all the more for it, a perfectly balanced triad, woven into the very fabric of their lives.

And for the sake of the sun and the stars, for the dark of the moon and all the world that it touched, it had to be hoped that this, this would be enough.

**FIN**

Author Notes: I don't know how this happened, but I'm actually DONE! :D All I can say is that I have enjoyed it immensely, and hope that you have too! Please let me know of any closing thoughts you might have, and thank you!

I would also like to thank my wonderful beta Chemical Nova for all her support (with equal opportunity bribes and threats). I leave you with her wise words, which I feel embody the drive behind this fic:

"_The bond between brothers is the fluff that holds together our fandom"_

:D xxx


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